


If It’s Not Broken (it’s about to be)

by Rokikurama



Series: Overwhelming Success [1]
Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Dagon/Michael are ANGELFISH, Demisexual Crowley (Good Omens), Dom/sub, Experienced Aziraphale (Good Omens), F/F, Footnotes, Genderfluid Character, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Heavy Angst, Lack of Communication, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Nonbinary Aziraphale (Good Omens), Nonbinary Character, Other, POV Multiple, References to Chilling Adventures of Sabrina, References to Depression, References to Drugs, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), as a ship name I mean, not as actual animals, though there IS an actual octopus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:18:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22300144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rokikurama/pseuds/Rokikurama
Summary: Heaven and Hell’s respective overachievers Michael and Dagon learn that the absolute worst punishment is overwhelming success.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Dagon/Michael (Good Omens)
Series: Overwhelming Success [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1614538
Comments: 70
Kudos: 46
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Good Omens Big Bang. Art by the incredible Vebira and beta-ed (up to the author's last minute scrambling) by TheKnittingJedi.
> 
> As far as the tags go, here's what to expect: The violence isn't particularly gory, but it is pretty explicit. The mentions of drugs and depression are very light. The dom/sub themes come through at various points and have some BDSM-typical notes towards possible sexual violence but nothing bad (in that sense) actually happens.
> 
> The individual chapters will have slightly more specific notes, so please take heed of those as we go if any of these tags concern you.

Dagon slumped in the luxurious leather chair, sighing gratefully as the astronomically expensive ergonomic features supported this and that and whatnot of her ridiculous corporation. She checked the large wall clock in this cathedral to office furniture that the humans had built for themselves. She wasn’t looking at the clock because she was eager for this meeting to begin. Far from it. Angels were stupid and self-righteous and shiny. Hurt her eyes. She was looking to gauge how much time (should be at least forty minutes) before Archangel Whatserface showed up. According to what she’d researched on the thing Crowley insisted was called “the internet” (sounded fake but ok, fine for now) that might be enough time for the ache in her lower back to clear up. That ache had plagued Dagon since the blessed Meiji Revolution.

A cough interrupted her relaxation (one of those annoying ones that’s pretending to be polite even though both cough-er and cough-ee know full well it’s a pretense) and Dagon opened her eyes to look up with irritation. And immediately closed them again. Also in irritation.

“What the heaven are you doing here so early?” she demanded.

“I should ask you that, I think! Punctuality is a Virtue, after all.”

“You lot really change the book  _ again _ ?” Dagon growled, meeting and even backache immediately forgotten. The paperwork! All those souls wanting their cases re-assessed! For the love of Satan, those—

“Well. Maybe not quite one of The Seven, but certainly implied.” Dagon relaxed, and Angel Whatserface almost looked embarrassed. That was pretty hilarious. Made her cheeks go all pinky. Could almost see how Ligur tolerated this one before he, as Satan put it, “kicked the bucket.” Or Crowley did, she guessed. Hastur hadn’t really been too coherent about the exact physics involved.

“So,” said the angel, almost unwillingly, “what  _ is _ this…thing that you’re doing?”

“This, pigeon, is ergonomics. I don’t know about you Upstairs, but our office furniture hasn’t been updated since the blessed Industrial Revolution started tooting its blessed steam whistle.” The angel sniffed and sat in the opposite chair. Dagon might’ve been Lord of the Files, not a demon of temptation like Crowley, finely tuned to detect such things, but even an imp would’ve felt the rush of shocked pleasure that flooded out when the angel relaxed into it. She waved a hand about to convey “I told you so” without the effort of speaking and closed her eyes again. A few minutes of silence followed.

“I suppose if we’re both present, we ought to start the meeting early,” Angel Whatserface said reluctantly.

“Fuck no. You’re the one who’s early, you can wait.”

“But you’re—”

“I’m here to exercise my Satan-granted right to Sloth, spoonbill. Our meeting starts in, oh, 32 minutes now, and I intend to spend every second of that time letting this damnable chair re-habilitate my spine.”

“You may call me Archangel Michael.”

Dagon didn’t bother to dignify that with a reply. Satan wanted something done about Those Two, probably because some of the younger demons and imps had started whispering about “indestructible traitors.” Word from Upstairs, according to Beez, i.e. according to the asshole angel whose name she’d suddenly started doodling on Dagon’s meeting agendas,* was they had a similar issue.

*Gross.

Hastur was still on Discompassionate Leave after Ligur’s death, lighting souls and other shit on fire in the eighth circle. Hadn’t even thanked Dagon for making them file the P666-42-L’s that made him eligible, after the Everglades Incident back during the colonization made it incredibly clear that the “Infernal Eternal Partners” designation applied. But that was demons for you. So Beez had dumped the mess on Dagon, who was going to milk this time out of Hell for every second she could get.

Exactly 32 minutes later, the angel faux coughed again.

“Let this meeting of the Special Joint Committee on Extra-judicial Extra-nasty Punishments come to order,” Dagon intoned. Michael glared at her.

“What.”

“I always chaired the meetings when I met with Ligur.”

“Do I look like an over-aggressive under-observant lazy idiot to you?” Dagon said. Michael gave her an appraising look. Dagon met her eyes coolly. Angelic eye-contact made her want to squint, but if rising through the ranks of Hell had taught Dagon anything, it was never let them see you bleed.*

*And if bleeding was inevitable, take it as an opportunity to refine your cocktail recipes. You could even name the new drink after the newly created corpse.

“I suppose we can take turns,” the angel conceded. Fine. Dagon took a breath and began the litany.

“Present: Dagon, Lord of the Files, representing Hell. Michael, Archangel, representing Heaven. Agenda Item One: Pool information regarding the traitors Aziraphale and Crowley, Agenda Item Two: Brainstorm alternative punishment and/or execution methods. Short-Term Meeting Goal: Draft forward-thinking plan of action and tasks for all members to complete before next meeting date.” Dagon paused. She could still see the broken, lifeless look on Hastur’s face when she gave him the Discompassionate Leave. Hear the Duke’s screams of shock and agony melting away in the holy water. All so that…that _human-loving_ **_snake_** could bask in the unholy drama. Fuck them. Fuck their rubber duck. Fuck their towel. Fuck their stupid bloody sunglasses. “Long-Term Committee Goal: Bring the traitors to their knees.”

When Dagon’s eyes slid back to Michael, the angel had the oddest expression on her face. Something feral but restrained. Something Dagon could actually relate to. But Michael blinked or sparkled or whatever it was angelic corporations did, and it was gone.

“Agreed.”

* * *

Crowley was waiting. Crowley had been waiting. Crowley had been waiting a really, really, really longass time. Crowley prided themself on their patience. You had to know how to play the long game to see any kind of possibility in municipal highway construction, after all. But Aziraphale sorely tested their limits.

If the angel didn’t decide which book ze was giving Adam for Christmas in the next ten seconds, Crowley was going to narrow the possibilities. With fire.*

*They were in an actual book _ store _ (i.e. not A. Z. Fell and Co) for this, so Crowley wouldn’t be bothered at all by the smell of burning paper. Probably. Maybe best not to test it. For Aziraphale’s sake. Obviously.

“Well, on second thought, perhaps…” Aziraphale muttered, and Crowley rolled their eyes. This had to be at least eighty-ninth thought. In self defense, they grabbed at the book with the most interesting cover design, and—oh. Oh. And ended up grabbing Aziraphale’s hand instead, as ze reached for the same book. Their fingers interlaced, and Crowley felt the heart they absolutely, resolutely did not have speed up to beat a quick march. Aziraphale’s hand, despite being similarly short one circulatory system, went simultaneously cold and sweaty. The moment stretched.

They’d been doing this little dance ever since Armageddidn’t. Reaching out but stopping. Touching, but not talking. Pregnant pauses that turned out to be just eleven-days-late-period scares. Crowley had said “stay at my place,” and Aziraphale had duly stayed, but they’d both resolutely ignored the bedroom door.*

*The bedroom door fought a valiant pitched battle to stay in existence that night, faced with such strong celestial and occult desire for it to disappear. It had been bolstered in the final hour, however, by said celestial and occult beings’ Suppressed But Very Acute Awareness that there were jet black silk sheets and a sinfully comfortable mattress just a wall away.

“Yes, I do think this is the best choice, in the end,” Aziraphale murmured. Crowley’s heart stopped. And then, because Crowley was a bloody coward, they said something dumb like “finally, angel, I was about to discorporate from boredom over here” before jamming their hand back into their pocket.*

*Where it could think about what it’d done.

Aziraphale’s smile dimmed slightly, and God’s balls, if this was still too fast for zir, Crowley didn’t know how to go any slower. But they could. They would. Crowley would do anything, had done everything, for love of this ineffable idiot. And if basking in zir light like one of the fucking houseplants was all Crowley ever got to do, that was enough.* 

*Aziraphale seemed not even to notice Crowley’s spots.

They  _ were _ going off together, after all, just off into their Earth’s future instead of away to galaxies unknown. Crowley let Aziraphale buy the book, an action that never failed to restore the angel’s smile to maximum brightness, and only groaned a little when ze “suggested” they visit a stationery store next for ribbons and wrapping paper.

* * *

Shame the angel and the demon were both too focused on their own thoughts to notice the woman-shaped being in a sharp white suit and impeccable updo who’d been sitting in the bookstore cafe, sipping an espresso and watching them. Or the one lurking in the back of the stationery store* pretending not to take shorthand notes on their bickering. She wore a military surplus jacket and button-up white shirt, dark hair pulled back into a severe ponytail tied at the nape of her neck.

*Idly mixing up the “Get Well Soon” and “Congratulations on Your Engagement” card stacks.

If they had, well. But they didn’t. Ineffability’s a bitch, isn’t it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER SPECIFIC CONTENT NOTES:
> 
> Choking violence  
> Aziraphale briefly thinks about doing something sexually violent but *does not* and realizes explicitly in the text that it's wrong.

Aziraphale watched fondly from the comfiest bookshop armchair as Crowley turned Adam’s gift over and over in their hands, scanning critically for any weak spots the boy could use to actually unwrap the book. They’d insisted on wrapping the package themself after Aziraphale selected the paper, seemingly so they could secure every possible opening with precisely applied tape. They’d never been able to do this with Warlock’s gifts. Every package, even those from the staff, were to be inspected by the security agents and then wrapped by one of the maids in whatever papers Mrs. Dowling had chosen to coordinate with the tree room decor. The cynical production of it all had been enough to make even Aziraphale dread the season of Peace on Earth and Goodwill Towards Men. Not that ze had ever approved of its crasser, more commercial elements, of course.* 

*But ze did have to hand it to Crowley. Some of their worst work.

What Aziraphale did relish about the holiday* was the chance to make something for Crowley. Ze had just cast on another scarf, in fact, as part of zir multi-year campaign to keep the silly snake warm in the winter months. Aziraphale found zir mind constantly drifting to Crowley’s long, elegant neck, no matter what ze did, so might as well make the thoughts earn their keep. 

*Which ze and Crowley both knew bore much more relation to a previous pagan winter solstice festival that the Church decided to appropriate (it being much more effective to tell people they were drinking and getting off from work in honor of something new than to tell them to stop drinking and get back to work, wait another couple months, that’s a good chap) than poor dear Yeshua’s birthday.

Aziraphale had long since found zir thoughts required strict supervision on the subject of Crowley’s neck. In the first millenium when humanity’s numbers were small and Crowley’s boredom was vast, Aziraphale had been fairly comfortable with zir frequent urges to wring Crowley’s neck. Clearly part and parcel of Aziraphale’s heavenly duty to smite The Opposition. A much more comfortable feeling, in fact, than when Crowley made Aziraphale laugh.*

*Something the demon did with worrying regularity. But laughter wasn’t a sin. Aziraphale had made very sure to check. Twice.

But then had come the Flood, and everything changed. The Heaven-based angels often found it difficult to differentiate between humans,* so Uriel came to Aziraphale for an escort. That, Aziraphale had decided, gave zir implicit permission to stick around and eavesdrop. Noah had just begun frantically calling to his sons when Uriel trotted around behind the dwelling and caught sight of Aziraphale. 

*A fact that would have considerably eased the mind of Mary’s neighbor Berenice, who many centuries later had been interrupted mid-coitus on her wedding night by a shining but rather sternly disapproving angelic visitation wearing an impeccably tailored robe.

Zir face must have been quite a sight, because Uriel stopped in her tracks and sighed. She draped a spotless golden wing over Aziraphale’s back, flooding zir senses with the smell of freshly baked bread and the sound of wind rushing through an eagle’s wings as it soared.

“Sometimes things get broken and can’t be fixed, Aziraphale,” she’d said.* “The Nephillim were not your fault. And remember, you’re just one Principality now, alone, not a Cherub with comrades-in-arms.”

*Aziraphale spent most nights that millennium going over zir records, searching for the broken thing. Ze was the longest serving angel in that part of the world, what had ze not seen? What had ze not warned them about? Was it something Aziraphale was doing too? The Morningstar’s ideas had seemed controversial, surely, but not unforgivable. Until--quite suddenly--they were. Utterly. Aziraphale had been distracted then, paying little attention to the speech-making and debating while training with the other Cherubs. Had ze been distracted, again?

“Weep not,” Uriel had said, not unkindly but firmly, “for the wicked. Take care with Noah and his family.”

Aziraphale avoided Crowley, then, as best as one could avoid the only other supernatural being in the hemisphere. Particularly considering they had begun experimenting together with the glorious human invention of alcohol. When they finally cornered Aziraphale outside the Ark, well. They would not let up. Why This, and Why Them, and Why Now, and, and, and. And, worst of them all, What Do  _ You _ Think, Angel, o  _ Being of Love _ ? 

When the rain started to fall, Aziraphale stood nearby. To bear witness. Ze waited until the roaring water swallowed up the last of the screaming, wondering why, when the whole world was crying, ze couldn’t shed a tear. And then Crowley found zir. Replaced the humans’ agonized pleas with a bitter, never-ending loop of everything Aziraphale desperately did not, could not, should not, would not think. Or be damned.

“Was this your plan, then, fiend?” Aziraphale cut into Crowley’s ranting, making zir voice as cold as ze felt looking at the lake that had been a bustling, thriving valley of cities. “Damn a people to sin, then tempt an angel to Doubt? I must say, well done. Brilliantly conceived.”

Crowley whirled on Aziraphale and flared their wings, darker still than the darkness surrounding them as the sun set on the downpour. Their serpent’s eyes blazed and lips twisted with outraged disgust.

“Why you self-centered—”

Aziraphale lunged. Crowley’s impressive wingspan might have terrified a human into backing down. But in the rain? Against a soldier of Heaven? Their outspread wings were a serious liability. Aziraphale channeled all zir anger, all zir sorrow, all zir  _ everything _ into making the demon stop  _ bloody _ talking. Crowley dodged, snake-like reflexes putting them just out of Aziraphale’s reach, but it was too sharp a movement. Crowley overbalanced, wings flapping, and slipped in the sandy muck. Aziraphale was on the demon before they could speak: one grimy hand pinning a wing, the other snapping chains into existence around Crowley’s wrists and ankles, knees and zir bulk pressing the demon’s lower half into the mud. Crowley fought, thrashing and bucking, shouting something that sounded a lot like “hypocrite” until Aziraphale stuffed zir ragged linen turban into their mouth as an impromptu gag.

“Listen to me, you-you-you-” Aziraphale had been choking on decades of suppressed rage and trying to hold Crowley still when their gazes locked. That image of Crowley’s inhumanely bright golden eyes burning through the downpour all around them, Aziraphale’s hands tangled in their hair, grabbing at their throat, it seared into Aziraphale’s soul. In that instant, Aziraphale knew that Crowley had never truly Tempted zir before. Because all of the raging tumult of feelings in Aziraphale’s heart suddenly solidified into what must be Lust. Aziraphale had never felt  _ want _ like the heady rush that enticed with shameful visions of replacing Crowley’s impromptu gag with something much more corporeal.

Crowley stilled, looking straight into Aziraphale’s eyes. The only thing moving was the rain, still beating down on Aziraphale’s back, on Crowley’s spread limbs, on the mud-covered ground around them. But heat licked up Aziraphale’s body as ze dipped down slowly towards Crowley, responding to a nameless instinct ze would have fervently denied having. Crowley blinked wide eyes, and something indefinable in them brought Aziraphale back to zir senses. Shock? Horror? Betrayal? Aziraphale had never mustered the courage to ask, to bring up what ze could have, had almost, thought. Had  _ wanted _ to do. It was Wrong. And Aziraphale only ever wanted to do Right by Crowley. Even if what that meant, exactly, was rather complicated. 

Aziraphale leapt backwards off Crowley so fast ze tripped, vanishing the restraints with a snap and zirself in a lonely beam of golden light. That incident stood out as the first and only time Aziraphale returned to Heaven without being summoned.* Ze stayed in Heaven until Gabriel clapped zir on the shoulder and said something passive-aggressively Gabriel like, “Well, it’s been fun, Aziraphale, but the humans aren’t going to guide themselves, mm?”

*Uriel had nodded knowingly on seeing a soaking wet, mud-stained Aziraphale appear in the middle of a pristine Heavenly courtyard. She pointed to the light baths and never spoke of it again, to Aziraphale or (so far as ze could tell) to any other angels. Why, Aziraphale had no idea. Too shameful, perhaps. How low a Cherub could fall.

Crowley and Aziraphale’s paths didn’t cross again for centuries. The demon never once even vaguely hinted at possibly referencing the moment again. Aziraphale dutifully—cowardly—followed their lead.* Ze knew it didn’t mean ze was forgiven.

*Not to say that image didn’t resound through 5000 years of sleepless nights. It did. Whenever Aziraphale felt zir failure as an angel particularly strongly, the memory of Crowley’s body and zir lust was never far away. And if Aziraphale’s treacherous brain had played out the scenario differently once, twice, an uncountable number of bitten off cries more, with Crowley begging for—well. That just made it even worse, didn’t it?

Back in the bookshop, Crowley was now waving their hand in front of Aziraphale’s face and making an annoying whining noise like a radio trying to tune into a station.

“Earth to Aziraphale, this is Earth, calling Aziraphale. Come in, angel, come in.” Aziraphale rolled zir eyes and, unthinking, reached out to bat Crowley’s hands away. But Aziraphale caught one of their slim, bony wrists instead, and there it was. An ember of heat in zir gut, a little frisson of want. Aziraphale might not have Fallen but would never be forgiven.

Aziraphale dropped Crowley’s wrist like it burned* and cleared zir throat deliberately.

*It did. Just not where it was supposed to.

“So, I’ll see you at Adam’s after the holiday, yes?”

Aziraphale’s eyes tracked the movement of Crowley’s throat as they swallowed. Wondered what it would feel like under zir fingertips. Soft, soft skin over firm muscle.

“Uh, yeah.” Crowley’s eyes shifted to the bottle of red they’d never got around to opening. “Want me to, ah--”

“Well, it’s getting to be a teensy bit late, isn’t it,” Aziraphale said and lit up zir very best “customer service” smile.*

*It strongly implied that the smile recipient smelled like the dubious mixture of spoiled milk, rotten egg, and fish that should’ve been thrown out before the guests even arrived, never mind three days later.

“You don’t sleep,” Crowley said, slightly accusatory.

“But I know that you do, my dear, and I wouldn’t dream of standing in-between you and your very well-deserved rest.” Aziraphale stood up and looked expectantly at the door. “Give my very best to your plants and, ah, the Bentley, of course.”

There was a moment where Crowley seemed about to argue, but then their expression shuttered.

“Night, angel.”

Aziraphale waved with all the cheeriness ze absolutely did not feel as the door banged shut. It was for the best.

* * *

This time when Dagon arrived her traditional hour early, Michael was already waiting, enthroned in one of the less comfortable but more commanding C-Suite Executive desk chairs. They could’ve run the building’s whole air-conditioning system off the cold fury barely hidden behind her mask of civil professionalism. Ah. So the angel had come to the same conclusion as she had, then.

Michael wasted no time calling the meeting to order. Dagon made a face but allowed it, sinking into The Chair with a grateful sigh.

“To put it bluntly, we—I, that is, under-estimated the traitor Aziraphale.”

Michael’s face looked like she was smelling Hastur after he’d been at his blessed mold-infested desk for a week straight, dripped on by leaky Water Torture outflow pipes the whole time. Dagon grunted.

“I always knew Crowley was smart, but I never would’ve pegged them as the type to go soft. Performing miracles? Blessings?” Dagon mimed vomiting. “For centuries. Hundreds of them. No wonder the holy water didn’t work. They’re polluted. And not in the good way.”

“I confess myself somewhat, well.” Michael tightened her lips and looked away, and Dagon’s finely tuned nose for patient, vengeful wrath* flooded out any other sense impressions. 

*Very useful for anyone whose domain largely consisted of bureaucracy and filing cabinets.

“Grudgingly…impressed.”

Amused, Dagon just looked at her.

“A deception of such scope could not have been accomplished by unintelligent, lazy, incompetent entities, which had long been my assessment of them both.”

Dagon shrugged.

“Crowley was always big into Sloth, which translated into very efficient work.” Michael raised a finely drawn eyebrow, so Dagon continued. “Efficiency, if you think about it, is just very fine Sloth. Weaponized laziness. Crowley made their laziness into a really, really, really sharp knife—the kind of knife you don’t even realize is cutting until it’s too late. I think they might’ve actually talked themself into believing they were harmless.”

“Ligur always did think Crowley went native,” Michael said. Dagon laughed, a high rasping sound that provoked the witches’ souls cloistered around her office in Hell to either raging jealousy or an emotion Crowley once bafflingly described as “heart eyes.” Michael was inscrutable.

“Like I said, Ligur was an idiot.  _ I _ balance the books. Not likely I’d have bought Crowley inciting a world war—or any of their other bullshit—if there hadn’t been souls flooding Downstairs covered in snakey little fingerprints. Want to know how many humans were damned for the rot that a long, torturous daily commute ate into their weak-willed little souls? And how that resentment seeped into their families, who spread it on further? Might as well water your garden with herbicide.”

“And you never corrected their misapprehension.” Michael’s eyes lit up like a glacier refracting the dawn. “Genius.” 

An odd pleased warmth settled somewhere in Dagon’s gut. Like a damn housecat. Must be the ergonomics working out some of the knots that formed when Upstairs got the States to pass Prohibition.* 

*Not that that had worked out all very well for Heaven, in the end. His Satanic Magnificence had worn the trick goat shoes for decades. Dagon learned a number of exciting new accounting methods, and Crowley’s reports went on and on and on about innovations in some kind of alcohol called moonshine.

Michael held eye contact rather longer than Dagon had been expecting. Made her feel a bit like a moth pinned to a specimen board. She glared, just to remind the angel that intimidation would get her nowhere. Michael licked her lips.

“To business, then,” Dagon croaked, which mercifully seemed to snap Michael out of whatever it was that’d come over her. “I’d say your angel’s as tainted as Crowley, essence rusted all over with blowback from doing the Devil’s work.”

“Fascinating ze did not Fall.”

“Sure,  _ fascinating _ ’s one word for it,” Dagon sneered but without much heat. She was, more or less, exactly where she wanted to be. Working conditions could be better, sure, and she could’ve done without the lake of boiling sulfur, but Dagon didn’t regret Falling. Their Revolution had been glorious and just, if short-lived. Michael raised an eyebrow and cocked her head, looking at Dagon again like she was a particularly interesting scientific specimen, but let it pass.

“I believe we have accomplished short-term goal A: Discover how the traitors survived their executions. Let us move on to the brainstorm stage for short-term goal B, then. I have,” Michael paused, face contorting like there were thumbscrews hidden in her chair, “ _ concerns _ that further efforts towards execution will yield similar results. They have both altered their essences so dramatically that we are in quite unknown territory. And any more failures on that specific point would be...undesirable.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Dagon said with feeling. Requests for long-term Earth postings flooded her in-tray. She rotted the forms into unsavory globs of moldy pulp whenever a demon was stupid enough to submit them personally,* but it did nothing to stem the tide.

*While  _ snow _ balls might not last long in Hell, Dagon felt the general concept of throwing disgusting semi-liquid globes at irritating people was extremely sound. 

The blessedly frustrating part was, what with Crowley’s name having been struck out of the books with extreme prejudice, Hell did in actual undeniable fact need more agents out in the field. Trying to sort the “reliable” from unreliable demonic applicants with Beez breathing down her neck was about as much fun as mixing a papercut with guacamole. 

“Morale took a pretty big hit when Beelzebub told everyone to go back to sticking the humans with the pitchforks, after they’d been looking forward to angel shish-kabob. And then the trial,” Dagon shook her head. “Legion told us you at least had the sense to make yours a closed doors execution. We thought making a big show of the traitor burbling away would be, dunno, cathartic or something.”

Michael smiled tightly. “Yes. However,” there was that ridiculously attractive scent of tightly restrained wrath again, “ _ Gabriel _ had already sent out memos proclaiming the Principality’s end. Widely. And the Grigori never could keep their mouths shut.” Michael’s wrath smelled like steel-smelting. No, that wasn’t quite it. Starmetal-smelting—ozone and napalm. And…cinnamon? Dagon only realized she had closed her eyes when the angel did one of those stupid coughs. She snapped back to attention.

“As I was saying,” Michael said, glittering threateningly at Dagon, “any ideas you have as to alternative methods at this juncture would be  _ delightful _ .”

Dagon grinned. She had long ago discovered, to her immense satisfaction, that her sharp-toothed, overly-vertical grin disturbed even the other demonic aristocracy. Michael did not flinch in the slightest. Disappointing.

“I’ve noticed a strange...pattern, you might say. In the traitors’ interactions. You?”

Michael shook her head but leaned forward, intent. Dagon could see her wings pricking up in that Other space, if she squinted against the fluorescent glare.*

*Which was…odd. Surely Heaven didn’t have the same piss poor excuse for lighting they did Downstairs? So why would there be fucking fluorescents in Michael’s divine hammer-space?

“Ignore that they’re an angel and a demon. Just look at what the files show them doing together. If they were really long-lived humans, you follow, I’d call them ‘courting.’”

Dagon finally got the satisfaction of disturbing Michael’s calm. The angel sat back heavily, putting her C-Suite chair’s reclining features to the test. Her eyes unfocused, as if she was mentally flicking through files. It gave Dagon an opportunity to finally indulge her curiosity and study Michael much more thoroughly and openly. The archangel had surprised her, so far. Righteous, certainly, but not self-righteous. More like… efficient. There was an economy to Michael’s movements, a tight control that appealed to Dagon. Very much, actually. Even her angelic super shiny glitter aura, whatever it was, didn’t constantly blare out like a foghorn the way that insufferable Gabriel or Sandalphon’s did.

Michael snapped back to alertness, eyebrows drawn together in consideration.

“Yes,” she said finally, “I see to what you refer. There are even spikes in the ambient level of...Love…during their meetings.”

Dagon gagged at the four-letter word, and Michael nodded tightly. The fact that they, an archangel and demonic lord, agreed really said it all about how disgusting the traitors were.

“It’s unconscionable. But I don’t fully see how it helps us.”

“Courting, but they still haven’t fucked,” Dagon said smugly. “If you run the numbers comparatively to human lifespans, they’re in their own league of statistical anomaly. When both individuals involved  _ want _ to fuck, course. And, my dark lord Satan,  _ do _ they.  _ Want _ .” Michael frowned deeply, tilting her head in consideration. Her eyebrows were quite severe. Put Dagon in mind of typography. Helvetica?

“Giving in to Lust for a demon would be sinful, of course,” Michael said, eyes focusing somewhere besides Dagon’s, for a change. “But I regret,” she sighed heavily, “ _ deeply _ regret to inform you that it would be far from the first instance of physical love-making for the traitor Aziraphale. Ze was particularly skilled at imparting Divine Ecstasy, and the act itself, if done with Love—or for another righteous cause—is not inherently sinful.”

“Oh, this is going to be even better than I thought,” Dagon cackled.* 

*And marked down finding out what the hell other “righteous causes” someone might need to have sex for as a To Do. 

Michael still looked skeptical, and Dagon took a moment to savor the angel’s irritation. (Obviously the irritation itself, not the adorable way it made her nose pinch up and scalpel-sharp dark eyebrows wrinkle into the wobbly little lines of Comic Sans.) Dagon wondered what it would feel like to trace those eyebrows with her nail, following the line around to skim over haughty high cheekbones and down to gold-dusted lips.

“Accept just for a minute, Ducky,* that Hell just possibly might know slightly more about the twisted paths of sex-driven disasters than Heaven.”

*Michael’s nostrils flared. This wrath had a different scent to it, still the starmetal and cinnamon but something else as well, something Dagon couldn’t place. 

Dagon paused for the inevitable objection. Michael pursed her lips consideringly but then gave a quick, decisive nod.

“Well, let’s have the ‘fruit’ of your knowledge, as it were. You’re obviously more than competent.”

Dagon’s jaw dropped for a full second in an inexcusable loss of control. She covered the way she knew best, baring her teeth in an intimidating, grisly grin that showed off every one of her fangs. Maybe the stork hadn’t been looking properly when she did it before. Michael was definitely looking now, storm gray eyes focused intently on Dagon’s mouth as the demon leaned forwards.

“All those idiots need is a teeny little push. In the wrong direction.”

* * *

Many years later, the demon Lilith would drag this story out of Dagon by plying her with decades of unintentionally hilarious incident reports from the Baxter High School files. Lilith had very strong opinions about who, precisely, the real idiots in this story were. Dagon, having spent most of the day chasing a runaway vegetable who’d stolen the Archangel Gabriel’s horn, really couldn’t argue much.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning for this chapter:  
> Emotional manipulation

And then it was just logistics. Michael was quite good at logistics.* 

*In the same sense as one might say that the traitor Aziraphale was “quite happy” to eat the humans’ food. 

It was astonishing, the number of things Gabriel deemed “not my department” which subsequently and inevitably wound up in Michael’s in-tray. Uriel once observed that Gabriel was the “show pony” of Heaven while Michael was the workhorse.* She then patted Michael on the shoulder.

*Sandalphon provided the show pony with his audience, an odious role that Uriel and Michael both were only too eager to avoid but that Sandalphon appeared to take genuine pleasure in. Evidence that it really did take all types to make a world, just as She once said. No matter how little usefulness Michael saw in most of them.

Looking back on the interaction, Michael guessed that Uriel meant to console her about a seemingly negative element in Michael’s existence. Admirable compassion. But Michael did not need consoling about her paperwork. Paperwork was power. When you were the one who made things happen, you were also the one with ever so much more control over what actually did happen.*

*It was still vaguely irritating that a random human took credit for Michael’s maxim that “the pen is mightier than the sword.” She had extensive experience in the employment of both swords and pens and was thus qualified to draw the contrast. That Edward fellow just happened to be nearby when she admonished Aziraphale about zir shameful shop operation and bookkeeping protocol.**

**It was Michael’s opinion that something Done ought to be Done Properly. Ze had convinced Gabriel the shop was a good idea. Fine. But ze was not—and Michael could not stress this enough—NOT a skillful shopkeeper. In retrospect, she should have had more faith that the Almighty did not make mistakes like Aziraphale and paid attention to the anomalies rather than writing them off as incompetence.

As was demonstrated admirably by Crowley’s response to her preparations for this little visit. Upon walking into the bathroom and seeing the precisely folded fluffy white towel and bright yellow rubber duck Michael had placed on the whirlpool tub’s edge, Crowley dropped an entire cocktail (plus the glass) on their foot and said a word she had only heard once before.* 

*When Dagon described her colleagues’ penmanship.

Crowley swiveled to run, but Michael already had her spear up. Crowley’s mouth opened, but she put the point right up against their corporation’s jugular.

“Stay.”

Crowley stared down at the spear, making a solid run at becoming the first ever snake to go cross-eyed. She pulled the spear back a fraction to indicate that the demon might answer.

“Uhm, oooooookay,” Crowley said, proving with sterling eloquence why she’d wanted to shut them up as soon as possible. Her palms felt an unaccountable urge to sweat. Irritating. There was nothing to be nervous about here. She and Dagon had strategized the plan, refined the phrasing, and practiced the delivery. They were ready. 

“We know how you traitors survived your executions,” Michael said. She paused, judging how much was sinking in via the height attained by Crowley’s eyebrows. “You and the principality had  _ sex _ , didn’t you?”*

*Not technically a lie, since it was in the form of a question. Questions couldn’t be lies, could they?

Expressions flitted across Crowley’s face like the soap bubbles slowly popping in the tub behind them. Genuine shock. Lust. Pain. (Self) Loathing. Relief. Calculation. Surprise and dismay that were significantly delayed and thus obviously manufactured rather than authentic emotions. Almost disappointing, how easy the infamous Serpent of Eden was to manipulate, given the proper planning. Dagon would never be so—Well. Dagon hadn’t been sure Michael could deal with Crowley. She was looking forward to their next meeting. Not to brag, obviously. Simply to inform the demon of success. And see the expression on her face.

“Oh no! How—”

“Shut up,” Michael said, pushing the spearpoint forward again. She flicked her hand dismissively and blessed the water running into the bathtub behind Crowley. “The traitor Aziraphale always was weak for pleasures of the flesh. It doesn’t take a genius. And so we know  _ and _ Hell knows it’s worthless threatening you with this Holy Water.” She stepped forward, backing Crowley up almost to the tub’s edge. They swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing lightly against the spearhead. “Right now, anyway. But this is a  _ friendly _ warning, Demon Crowley.”

“Friendly?” Crowley said, apparently physically unable to keep quiet any longer, and pointed one scrawny, shaking finger up at their throat. “This your  _ friendly _ spear then, Mikey, old pal?”

It was well that Michael had recently improved her patience for demonic insufferability, or she might’ve skewered Crowley right then and there and ruined the entire plan by freeing them from their corporation. So instead she lowered the spear entirely, planting it solidly against the tile at her feet.

“A friendly  _ warning _ , demon traitor. We know the weakness of this plan: you two must continue,” she sneered, “fornicating to keep up your immunity. But,” and  _ here _ was the move that mattered, the true suggestion she had to impart, “you should know that the Principality Aziraphale has been in contact with Heaven.” 

She turned her back to the demon, trusting that they were too terrified by that news* to try anything violent, and walked away. 

*Again, technically not a lie. Aziraphale had performed miracles** since the Day-Which-Shall-Not-Be-Named. Miracles showed up in Heaven’s accounting books, thus constituting contact.

**Unfortunately, despite her best efforts, there was no way to sever such a clearly undeserving angel from zir divinely gifted power. The Fall hadn’t even done it, not really, so she shouldn’t actually be surprised. But could still be annoyed.

“Ze always was a homebody, Demon Crowley. And did not Fall. How  _ special _ do you think you are to Aziraphale, really? Tick tock.”

* * *

Aziraphale frowned at the receiver in zir hand. Crowley sounded distinctly stressed, even a little hysterical, but would not say what was wrong. Crowley being stressed was, well, not uncommon but the demon usually anything but close-mouthed during bouts of anxiety. Indeed, Aziraphale much more often had to distract Crowley from long-winded ranting about whatever was on their mind.*

*The actual content of which was, in Aziraphale’s experience, highly variable. Everything from the humans one-upping pineapple on pizza (Crowley, really!) with octopus on pizza (Aziraphale was still unconvinced this actually existed, given Tanaka-san’s dark look when ze asked) to horrifying nightmares of the Inquisition’s dark basements (there were many reasons that Aziraphale declined to sleep) to highly philosophical but (apparently) urgent problems with whalesong to how on earth (only on Earth!) crocheting cock harnesses was a viable business model.

And Crowley had cancelled their lunch. Crowley never cancelled lunch. If anyone cancelled things, it was Aziraphale who—oh dear. Was Crowley upset? Was this some kind of message? “Just not a good time, angel”—what did that mean? What times were Crowley having? It had been a good time when ze proposed it yesterday. Hadn’t it been? Or had Crowley felt obligated somehow, and then reflecting on it—the shop bell tinkled.

Aziraphale reflexively called out, “My apologies, but we are quite closed.” Ze walked briskly to intercept the would-be customer before they could get too far in. Aziraphale was really not in the mood. “Perhaps you might consider…” Aziraphale lost zir voice at the sight of who was at the door.

“You’re right, angel,” Dagon, Lord of the Files, sneered and flipped the shop sign to Closed. “No humans are gonna be buying any more books today.”

Aziraphale stepped backwards as Dagon prowled further into the shop. It would look, of course, like retreat. Soft. That was what they always called zir in Heaven. Gabriel might well have passed that judgment on to Beelzebub and Hell as well.

“Not like that would make today special, from what I can tell,” Dagon said.

Aziraphale made a discreet sign behind zir back and felt the blessing take as a minute increase in holiness. Now the situation was a simple matter of space and of time. Move seven steps backwards before the demon could come within striking distance.*

*Assuming Aziraphale judged the striking distance correctly. It had been rather a significantly long while since ze had a chance to practice. Gabriel, if he approved of such things, might call it karma.

“Not very angelic is it, hoarding all these books?”

One.

“I suppose it might not seem so, to the casual observer.”

Two.

“Casual. Right.”

There was a half-drunk mug of tea on the shop desk. It did not make for very strong Holy Water, granted. Not strong enough to destroy a Lord of Hell. But enough to weaken her for a follow-up smite that would buy time to get to Mayfair and Crowley? Yes. Aziraphale berated zirself internally; of course Crowley’s unease was to do with Hell! And of course the blessed idiot wouldn’t want to draw Aziraphale into it. How could ze not have thought, not have considered, been so self-centered as to think it was all to do with zir?

Three.

“I’m curious,  _ Mr. Fell _ ,” Dagon emphasized zir assumed name as though it were an inside joke between them. A demon calling an angel “Mr. Fell” was, ze distantly supposed, ironic. “It that how it started? The sex, I mean. Casually?”

“W-w-w-what?!” Aziraphale stammered out, and if Dagon had lunged just then, she could have knocked Aziraphale over with a feather. She rolled her eyes.

“I thought not. Hastur owes me.” Dagon grinned, exposing a truly disturbing number of very, very sharp and pointy teeth between thin colorless lips, and waggled her eyebrows. “You looooove them, you foolish little angel, don’t you.”

Aziraphale realized zir jaw was hanging open and snapped it shut. “We. We haven’t. Of course I wouldn’t—couldn’t—”

Dagon made a rude noise and turned away to walk down a row of books,* letting one jagged fingernail scratch along the spines as she went.** “You can cut the act. Big kids only here, no prudish little humans allowed. You and I both know there’s nothing sinful about sex if done with love.”

*Temporarily halting Aziraphale’s intense mental calculations of the physics of sprinting angels, charging demons, and flying half-drunk mugs of (newly Holy) darjeeling.

**This was a grave price indeed to pay for Dagon ceasing to advance on Aziraphale with the intent of grievous metaphysical harm, but if that was what it took, Aziraphale would happily pay it. Well. Maybe not “happily,” per se. But still. 

Aziraphale swallowed. Ze had not known that, exactly. Not for certain. There had been the orders to inspire divine ecstasy, of course, but that was a very particular kind of Love. But this was what ze had always secretly suspected, secretly hoped. Aziraphale had rather given up on the institutionalized Church’s teaching vis-a-vis love some significant time ago. Gabriel had always erred on the side of “Let’s not tempt the Almighty, mmm?” and it wasn’t even worth considering asking Sandalphon.* Or Michael. But Love was the Almighty’s greatest gift, literally the stuff of angels, and ze always felt it should be appreciated in all of its wonder. 

*Aziraphale gagged at zir first taste of salt after Lot’s poor, dear, sweet wife. Ended up inventing an excuse to go to India for a few decades. Plenty of other spices there.

“And you’d need to be knocking back some serious demonic essence on the regular,” Dagon continued, “to spit hellfire.” She turned to where Aziraphale was still frozen. “Legion told us it was quite the show.”

Aziraphale swallowed. That was actually a very reasonable conclusion about what had happened at their trials. Not much of a leap at all. And the most effective deceptions are, naturally, those which the mark performs upon themself. With some ambiguous phrasing, Aziraphale wouldn’t even need to lie outright.

“Fine, then,” Aziraphale said. “You’re right. I,” ze wondered a little at actually saying it, out loud, to an audience.* “I love Crowley.”

*Even if the audience was, admittedly, not the first ze would have chosen. Or the second. Or the third. Or the. Well. It was a step up from empathic thinking in the direction of zir snuffbox collection, at least.

“I’m curious, angel, what was it like? Did you feel  _ wicked _ ? That human phrase, you know, ‘Hell of a night’? Inspired by—heh, well. I guess you’d know better than me. The souls Crowley damned say it often enough, and I’ve read so many blessed reports on it that sometimes it feels like I might as well’ve been there.”

Aziraphale felt clammy and slightly nauseous. But no. Ze knew what Crowley was, what they had to do. Ze had done some of it zirself, in fact.* And they hadn’t even had sex! How could Aziraphale be ashamed over something that hadn’t even happened! And that wouldn’t be shameful even if it had?!

*This fact did not actually make Aziraphale feel much better.

“Oh, I see.” Dagon said, giving Aziraphale a look that was far too shrewd to be comfortable. “They made it sweet for you? All lovey-dovey like? D’awwww, angel. How cute.”

“As you said, we are in love.” Aziraphale was surprised at how even zir voice was. 

“Yeah,” Dagon said. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, actually.” She snapped. Aziraphale flinched, but she had just summoned some kind of monstrous modern chair to the shop. Dagon sat back on it with a rather indecent groan of pleasure.

“If you’re going to try to tell me that Crowley can’t love because they’re a demon and demons can’t love, or some other such propaganda rot,” Aziraphale said with real feeling,* “then don’t waste your breath. I know that you’re wrong.”

*And stalked over to the shop desk, where the Holy Tea was just waiting to meet that smug, vulgar demon’s face.

“Heaven’s the one who says that, angel.” Dagon’s voice was low, her face inscrutable. “Not Hell.”

The words hung in the charged silence between them. Aziraphale loosened zir grip on the mug. It would profit exactly nothing if ze accidentally cracked it. And then did exactly that to the counter, as Aziraphale abruptly realized what the purpose of Dagon’s visit might actually be.

“Why are you here?”

“Don’t get your feathers in a molt, Aziraphale, Crowley’s in no danger from Hell. Stand down. To be frank, I’m here about recruitment and about you.”

Aziraphale stared at her, suspicion melting into utter bafflement.

“Me?”

“You,” Dagon agreed, and put up a hand to stop Aziraphale’s indignant reply. “Just hear me out on this one, m’kay? You and Crowley are together now, traitors to both sides, The Power of Love protects thee, sparkles and hearts everywhere, kissy kissy faces, yada yada yada. Great. But you know what Crowley also loves?”

Aziraphale frowned. There was…fashion, of course, the bee-bop, and that terrifying car, but--

“New shit. Crowley loves new shit. It’s why I thought you two might’ve been fucking even before this whole,” she grimaced, “incident. Crowley’s shagged everything else that moves, ‘s about time they bagged an angel and completed the set.” 

Aziraphale’s emotional register was so utterly shot through by this point that ze didn’t even know what to feel. Indignation on Crowley’s behalf? Despair that it might be true? Wonder that if Crowley did...indulge in the carnal pleasures, that perhaps? Pleasure and relief that the forces of Hell were so utterly convinced by their own wrong assumptions? Fear that there was a reason Crowley  _ hadn’t _ come to Aziraphale, like. Like that.

“So enjoy it, Aziraphale. Enjoy it while it lasts.” Dagon sat forward very suddenly and locked her pale-eyed gaze on Aziraphale’s. “But when they get bored, move on, and you’re still there, still in love? Still clinging on with your same old bookshop, same old waistcoat, same old tea, same old whatever? Congreve’s changed his tune on the whole ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’ thing since he’s been in the pits, but an angel scorned?” 

Dagon laughed. Aziraphale restrained a shudder. The noise was hideous, like some unwise scientist had given creaking joints a mouth and then told them a joke.

“I’m willing to bet that an angel scorned is going to have some serious wrath issues. And if you Fall for it, Aziraphale, I want you to know that you’ll be welcome.”

It was a good thing that Aziraphale’s corporation technically needed neither breath nor a beating heart, because both of those functions had rather fallen by the wayside during Dagon’s little speech. Zir mouth opened and closed but no sound came out. Aziraphale had no idea what sound ze wanted to come out.

“Welcome?” was, for some reason, what ze finally managed to croak out. Dagon nodded and stood, vanishing the chair.

“Welcome in Hell. As a demon, I mean. I’ve got a feeling that you’d fit right in,” Dagon said, waving a hand around abstractly at the accumulated books and dust and empty plates. “Didn’t want you getting any ideas about us not wanting you because of the whole Armageddon Thing.”

“The Armageddon...Thing,” Aziraphale said dazedly.

“Yep,” Dagon said. “That thing. So, yeah: Good luck. Have fun. See you later.” 

She wiggled her fingers at Aziraphale in a gesture that managed to be simultaneously creepy and friendly, and then the hard thud of the door announced the demon’s departure. Aziraphale stared into stacks, for once not seeing a single title while zir mind whirled, until what passed for an English sun set and the shop drifted into darkness.*

*Aziraphale would, at some point, attempt to take a restorative gulp of tea. However, ze had forgotten that ze blessed the tea water, which tends to have a significantly negative impact on the taste.** Unexpectedly gagging on and then spitting out Holy Water all over the shop counter did not improve zir mood.

**Essence of the Dead Sea.

* * *

Madame Tracy, over tea and petit fours with Aziraphale, and Anathema Device, over absinthe and reality TV with Crowley, both frequently advised that nothing would ever change between Aziraphale and Crowley unless they actually talked to each other. At this juncture, an individual gifted with the divine blessing of omniscience might even be so bold as to predict that the two  _ must _ talk to each other. All of them would, unfortunately, be correct.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Note:  
> Wherein the sexy times begin

Now all they had to do was wait. Or so Dagon kept assuring her, anyway.

“It’s just psychology, goose, stop worrying. Tempting is easy. The traitor just makes it look hard, because they’re an idiot. First, you observe: what emotional dominoes does the mark have set up? We’ve done that.”

Michael had always found emotions rather difficult to understand. Her logistics expertise skewed heavily towards the practical and the logical. Emotions were neither. But with Dagon’s assistance, she thought she was finally beginning to see. Emotions, desires, needs: they were all levers. Determine which levers were in what position for any given individual. Decide what configuration would be optimal for your purposes. Apply appropriate pressure on the key levers. Wait.

Take the traitor principality Aziraphale, for instance. Michael’s in-person interactions with zir tended to be frustrating.* It was why she’d always been more than happy to let Gabriel “take point,” as he put it.** But viewed through the distancing mechanism of thousands of years of observation reports, Michael could see Aziraphale’s deep desire for connection, ever-present fear of failure, and—yes—unshakeable faith in the at least potential Goodness of all beings. Where ze was stubborn and persistent as well as where ze was flighty and indulgent. Zir desires for the traitor demon as friend, lover, partner, comrade-in-arms.

*For both of them, though it’s not really fair to compare Michael’s frustrated annoyance with Aziraphale’s frustrated horror and existential dread.

**So long as he promised—really promised—never to “take point” in a more literal sense and lay a single smarmy angelic finger on Michael’s spear. Or her sword. 

Dagon really was very skillful at all of this. Pull on Aziraphale’s self-doubt and desire for fellowship. Push on Crowley’s self-doubt and fear of abandonment.* Give both of them implicit permission to take the step into each other’s arms that they so clearly and desperately desired. Suggest that time was somehow running out. Wait.

*It was curious that both angel and demon shared this characteristic of self-doubt. It must be something brought on by exposure to Earth, as Michael and Dagon agreed it was an emotion fundamentally absent from the inhabitants** of both Heaven and Hell.

**Even the ones who really, in both of their professional opinions, could have done with some. 

There was only one aspect of the plan about which Michael still had doubts. But that was what she had called Dagon here to rectify. Speak of the devil,* a faint odor of sulfur heralded Dagon striding through the office supply store aisles to what Michael had begun thinking of, privately, as Their Place. She threw herself into her usual chair and fixed Michael with an intense stare.

*As the humans said, anyway. Michael privately thought they might have got it from Sandalphon, who thought “see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil” was the height of tactical genius. It had, naturally, set Gabriel off on the Power of Positive Thinking. Michael allowed that the approach had its uses. Unfortunately, keeping Gabriel on task with a meeting agenda was not one of them.

“Shoot, dove.* I’m in the middle of a complicated audit.”

*Michael had initially been irritated by Dagon’s refusal to call her by name and title. But her curiosity had won out over protocol.** The pattern was easy enough to grasp, but She had created a limited number of birds with white feathers. What would Dagon call Michael when she ran out?

**As is seemed to with slightly worrying regularity in matters concerning the Lord of the Files.

Michael nodded. That was also one of her favorite tasks.

“To the point, then. I think we should have sex.”

Dagon’s corporation attempted to go pale and blush furiously at the same time, creating an interesting splotchy pattern. Michael leaned forward, intent on Dagon’s face. Was this a hint to the demon’s animal form, about which she’d been extremely evasive? Ever since that first meeting, Michael found herself distracted by thoughts of Dagon. Heaven’s files were shamefully incomplete on such a fascinating and formidable entity, and she and Ligur were clearly unreliable sources as regarded each other. Her face was very close to Dagon’s now. Michael closed her eyes, as was appropriate according to the protocol she had researched, and kissed Dagon.

It did not feel quite as she had fanta—expected. For one, when Michael opened her eyes, it turned out she was kissing an octopus.* 

*A rather large one, mostly black but mottled with the color of earthen red clay. Electric blue and white circles dotted all around her twisty, flailing limbs.  _ Perfect _ , was all Michael had time to think before other matters demanded her immediate attention.

For two, it had somehow escaped her mind that Their Place was in the middle of what the humans considered public space. A miracle and a few judicious words later, the office supply store shift manager was on his way home in a Lyft after an “unexpected cold medicine side effect” caused a “hallucination.” The rest of the store humans, customers and employees alike, came to recall that they hadn’t actually  _ seen _ anything unusual, aside from the manager screaming bloody murder at that very inoffensive and in-no-way-to-blame woman. They had simply allowed their imaginations to leap to wild conclusions when they heard the shift manager shouting things like “is that an octopus,” “public indecency,” “why is the octopus so fucking BIG,” and “what the bloody buggering fuck?!!”

By the time Michael sorted all that out, Dagon was gone. Michael frowned. This had not been a part of her plan. Dagon’s chair still smelled of her, an intoxicating mix of brimstone, sea spray, and iron, but the demon lord herself was decidedly absent. Michael’s phone vibrated in her pocket.

Unknown Number: what the blessed duck Michael?

Unknown Number: duck

Unknown Number: FUCK

Michael: Yes, that is what I proposed.

Michael: Where are you?

Michael: Do demons typically pursue sexual encounters in their animal forms? Would that not complicate intercourse?

Michael: Not that I am necessarily opposed.

Unknown Number: jesus christ on a cracker

Michael: ?

Michael: This is exactly why we need to perform a trial. Sex between angels and demons is too central a part of the plan for us to leave any unknown variables.

Unknown Number: the plan

Michael: Yes. Obviously.

Unknown Number: ...obviously

Michael was adding Dagon as a contact when the demon sent an address, which turned out to be the closest midrange business hotel, followed by a room number. Perfect. That would do admirably. Finally they were “on the same page,” as the humans said.

Regrettably, when Michael reached the room in question and found a largely human-shaped Dagon,* it turned out that they were not only decidedly not on the same page but that one of them may indeed have been watching a film.**

*Something of a relief, though obviously Michael was prepared to see this through no matter what corporeal challenges lay in wait. And Dagon’s octopus form had been rather intriguing.

**Dagon cast numerous aspersions on precisely what genre of film and in what type of seedy venue it might have been acquired, but Michael largely decided not to hear such remarks.

“So, to recap,” Dagon said wearily, rubbing her forehead as though occult beings could fall prey to migraines, “you’re worried that the traitors finally fucking—after what I have pointed out is actual millennia of pining—and doing it because of all the ideas we’ve put into their heads—thought patterns which I have explained are toxic to a successful relationship—-is not going to be enough to drive them apart?”

“Yes.”

“And further, it is your actual professional opinion as a blessed Archangel that the two of us,” Dagon motioned between them rather more vigorously than necessary, Michael thought, given that there were no other entities present in the room, “having sex would somehow lead to ‘valuable insight.’”

“Enabling us to appropriately modify our plan, if necessary. Yes.”

Dagon tilted her head and stared at Michael, as though she were a Magic Eye illusion drawing that would make sense with enough squinting. Then she returned to pacing back and forth in front of where Michael stood.

“You. And me. Here. Now. Having sex.”

“Yes.” Michael frowned, Dagon’s pained expression making an unpleasant thought occur. “Do you not want to?”

Dagon stopped and shot Michael a rather suspicious look. Michael smiled, showing off her just slightly too-sharp-to-be-human canines. This was much more familiar ground.

“Never said that,  _ swan _ .”

And then they were kissing again but in a much more satisfactory fashion. Michael gasped as Dagon bit down on her lip, teeth needle sharp with violence only a breath away but somehow all the gentler for that. Michael ran her hands through Dagon’s slick, almost oiled hair, and ripped apart the elastic binding it back into Dagon’s usual low ponytail so she could reach more of it. Dagon made a sound of deep satisfaction as Michael’s own elaborately piled hair tumbled down around her face and well past her shoulders.*

*Haircuts would not, as it were,  _ take _ for Michael. The Almighty apparently considered flowing tresses a key aspect of Her warrior general’s corporeal form. Michael considered them annoying. Her updo represented a stalemate that had lasted millennia. But Dagon looked at her with such wonder that she was suddenly glad she’d never been able to remove them.

Dagon’s lips were soft in this form, so soft, but every bit as demanding and insistent as the hands currently ripping through her suit’s buttons. Michael tilted her head back, urging Dagon on to her neck, and. Yes. It felt even better than she had imagined, that wicked smart mouth biting and sucking and kissing and licking. Dagon’s clothing was frustratingly opaque, as none of the buckles or buttons Michael undid seemed to bring her any closer to the demon’s skin. Dagon had been making much swifter progress,* so much so that Michael was down to just her severe white corset by the time her back landed on the bed. Dagon paused for a breath, wide eyes scanning over every part of Michael’s body.

*Had she somehow manifested more than the two arms that were traditional for a human corporation?

Her pause gave Michael the opportunity to perform a small miracle upon the demon’s wardrobe. Dagon squawked as every stitch of clothing she’d been wearing unceremoniously teleported three paces behind her and fell to the floor. She put her hands on her hips and stalked forward to loom over Michael.

“You can never tell anyone I made that…noise.”

Dagon’s breasts swayed forward as she crawled onto the bed, and Michael sat up to catch one in her mouth. She bit at it gently and began licking her way around to Dagon’s nipple.

“I find,” Michael started and then gasped as Dagon trailed one inhumanely sharp nail along her shoulders, “the best security,” Dagon yanked her hand down, effortlessly ripping through the corset laces that had been snug against Michael’s back, “is in mutually assured destruction.”

“Uh, so. You’re saying that, um, I,” Dagon spoke slowly as she took in Michael’s own newly freed breasts, “should get you to make embarrassing noises too.”

Dagon’s hand trailed further down Michael’s side drifting to feel the tightly coiled muscle in her ass. It made something deep inside her clench at the same time as it tickled maddeningly. Michael bit her lip to mostly contain a noise that promised to be exactly as embarrassing as Dagon’s adorable squawk.

“Game on.”

* * *

The Greeks might’ve been onto something with all that jazz about Pandora’s Box.* There were some topics that, though designed to inspire your keenest curiosity, should really just be let alone. Once you’d started off, though, even with a teeny tiny little pebble, there was no stopping the avalanche.**

*Trust Americans to bastardize this idea as “open a can of worms.” As a snake, Crowley felt a certain kinship with worms—they were kind of like the awkward small cousin at the family reunion. No one’s exactly sure how they’re related, but everyone smiles at them anyway because snakes aren’t monsters, thank you very much.

**Crowley might have considered, after their Fall and Eden and other such potential Learning Experiences, that tempting  _ themself _ into knowledge was a Poor Plan. But they’d always been higher on the “anxiety” than the “foresight” end of the scale.

Instead, they were burrowed face first into the bookshop backroom’s couch, trying to simultaneously block out and memorize for all eternity Aziraphale listing off zir Top Ten Lays of History.

“Well, and then of course there was Miss Lister,  _ my _ . I hadn’t had so much fun with a female-shaped corporation since Sappho!” Aziraphale’s tone was dreamy and full of Regency-era approved sighs. “Cocks are lovely, of course, but what that woman could do with a quim and her tongue—”

“Angel, I’m actually begging you here, please stop, I’m so sorry I asked. Also, for the love of Someone, never, ever say ‘quim’ again.”

“But how can I make a proper judgment of the top ten without first compiling a list of all the possibilities?”

“Are you seriously just ignoring me asking you to change the topic?”

"Well," Aziraphale huffed. "If you're so very eager, I suppose I won't hold you back any longer." Ze waited, eyebrow raised expectantly and with a defiant set to zir chin. The silence stretched. Crowley looked at zir blankly.

"What."

"Let's have them, then. I'm sure you're just dying to regale me with your conquests over the centuries."

Oh bugger it all to heaven. Fuck. Crowley usually prided themself on their ability to manipulate a conversation, so they really should have seen this one coming. But they tended to turn that part of their brain off when casually hanging out with the angel. It wasn’t that Crowley hadn’t had sex. They had. Quite a lot, in fact. When you’re a demon of temptation by trade and disinclined towards inciting Wrath and other outright violence, Lust starts to look like a pretty good sub-specialization. But that was just it. It was their nine-to-five, their particular set of skills, their job. As soon as they’d had the bright* idea that by tempting humans to have sex with  _ each other _ (instead of with Crowley) they could dramatically decrease the time it took to fill their quotas, that was pretty much all she wrote for their “sex life.”**

*And in retrospect, stunningly obvious.

**If you didn’t count Crowley’s imaginative solo adventures, that was. Their limpid little consciousness had tried to tell them it was Wrong to imagine their friend—their  _ best _ friend—like this without zir knowledge, but. Well. Demon. And what Aziraphale didn’t know couldn’t hurt zir. Just Crowley.

That realization had been the only good (if not at all, as it were, Good) thing that came out of Hell ordering them to tempt Caligula at one of his utterly horrifying orgies. After they’d written up that little escapade, the next time they’d seen Dagon, who (unlike Hastur) Crowley suspected of actually reading the reports they filed, the Dishonorable Demon Lord of Torments who presided over the balance books of Hell blanched and hurried away for an “urgent meeting” in the opposite direction. Crowley had sneered at her. Dagon had it easy, soft cushy desk job. She hadn’t had to smell it. Or have the particular undertone of horrified surprise that screaming takes on as it falls from pleasure into pain burned eternally into her brain. It hadn’t really been worth it, even if they’d been able to report every single soul at the orgy as definitively Hellbound.

It would be absolutely unacceptable to admit that in 6000 years, no sex they’d physically participated in came at all close to their fantasies of being with Aziraphale.*  _ In contact with Heaven _ , Crowley heard Michael say in their mind.** Stupid Michael’s stupid friendly stupid warning. Aziraphale needed more. More than gravlax in dill sauce. More than Crowley? Maybe just more than Crowley had been giving. 

*Crowley had a very vigorous imagination, okay?

**By no means for the first time.

So Crowley did what they always did when they panicked. Something truly, fantastically, monumentally stupid. They shifted just so on the couch, tipped down their glasses, and curled their lips into the wicked smile that had damned Abelard and Heloise both back in the 12 th century.***

***At least this way they spent eternity together. Even if they were, you know, in Hell.

“What if I showed you instead?”

Aziraphale’s face had been drawn up into an adorable snit, but zir pupils dilated so fast they must have broken some kind of land speed record. That drew Crowley up off the couch, their predatory instincts kicking in, and they stalked forward to straddle Aziraphale’s armchair, all but sitting in zir lap, and leaned down until they would be sharing breath if either they or Aziraphale had still been bothering with such trivialities.

The motion of it was utterly familiar, essentially muscle memory. Which left their mind free to utterly lose its shit. The devil of it, the worst part, was that Crowley had no idea if they were more desperate for Aziraphale to finally—finally!—kiss them or for the angel to dismiss the blatant, obvious, textbook seduction with the dismissive “tsk” it really deserved.

The angel kissed them.

Later, Crowley thought, for the first time ever awake while Aziraphale snored away contentedly beside them*, they had been wrong. The worst part wasn’t that they hadn’t known what they wanted. The worst part was only now, when it was too late, knowing down to their soul that they  _ hadn’t _ wanted it to work. Hadn’t, when it came down to it, wanted Aziraphale to have the same strings to pluck as any old human, any random mark, any other job, every assignment typed out on in everyday banality on form T666-69.**

*The angel’s soft little warm nest of curls spread out on their chest, and ze was so fucking precious that Crowley really couldn’t handle looking down at zir for too long.

**Even though they definitely wouldn’t be filing this one at the end of the week.

But it had and ze did. Really, the actual worst part was getting what they’d always wanted, what they’d endlessly conjured up alone, shaking apart in the dark while their fist pumped or fingers swirled, the breath they didn’t need coming fast—but not because they were loved. Not because Aziraphale had finally, finally said Our Side and meant it. No. 

But because they were damned good at their fucking job.

* * *

The next morning, an angel and a demon walked through Hyde Park, arm-in-arm. A sharp-eyed and insightful observer might have noticed that the angel clung just a little too tightly to the demon’s arm. That the demon spoke just a little too fast and a little too loud. That despite their joined arms, there was a little too much space between them. Or not quite enough.

It happened that there were, in fact, two such observers. On a bench further up the hill, looking down on the pair walking through the snow-kissed park, another angel and another demon sat. Close together, these two. The demon teased her fingers through a few stray curls that escaped from the angel’s otherwise impeccably respectable bun. The angel smiled. It was a small smile, almost shy. Don’t blame it. It had extremely little experience in gracing this particular angel’s face. When she turned slightly to observe the demon, it glowed just a little brighter.

“I give ‘em, mmm, nineteen days. Wager you a ‘massage’ for it.”

“Massage?”

“Thing the humans do to relieve stress. Rub on each other’s backs and necks. The chair helps, but apparently an ergonomic setup can only take you so far.”

“Perhaps spending less time sitting in the chair looking up solutions on the human’s internet would be a more efficient solution.”

“Yeah yeah yeah, Michael, don’t pretend you didn’t spend all of yesterday on their Instagram whatever. Hashtag minimalism ringing any bells?”

“Wagering is not a very angelic pastime.”

“That’s what I thought.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, watching the pair below with the satisfaction that comes of managing a very difficult task very successfully.

“We should keep them both under observation, in any case. I still have significant time allotted to this endeavor in my schedule.”

“Oh yeah, definitely. Who knows when something reportable might happen, right?”

“Just so,” the angel said. She paused. “If you wish, you might send me some of your research on this ‘massage’ technique. I’m sure I could perform it more competently than a human.”

“Check your inbox.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note:  
> Brief references to drugs/excessive drinking

The weeks that followed were the most exquisite torture of Crowley’s life. If they were still working for Hell, they would’ve recommended Dagon add it to the files. First, have a stupid, stupid, stupid idiot ask the object of their longtime hopeless love if they’ve had sex before. Okay, technically, said idiot interrupts said love object’s sozzled lecture on the Old Testament Song of Songs* to ask “you ever consider trying out all this ‘biblical knowledge’ in real life, angel?” Aziraphale was going to splutter and say no. Crowley was certain. Michael was a bitch and an arsehole and didn’t know shit about Aziraphale. None of those Heavenly wankers did. Never had.

*Crowley had never regretted so strongly tempting that one translator to make “know” synonymous with “fuck,” even though it had been hilarious. 

But Crowley should’ve known. Angels didn’t lie. And it was right there in the name. Aziraphale’s flesh had never met a pleasure it didn’t take to immediately. Part of them was living for this. They’d always had a talented tongue, and Aziraphale was not shy about telling them so. But now the angel wanted to talk about this, too. Incessantly. Analyze. Compare. Contrast. Critique. 

When Aziraphale fucked them into oblivion on their own bed (something Crowley had never let any inconsequential human even attempt) and they’d come, wholly untouched, the first thing Aziraphale did when Crowley stopped shaking was exclaim how different it felt than when ze’d done this with Plato. Did Crowley want to try a vulva? It really had been ever so nice with dear Miss Lister, Aziraphale was sure ze could remember the trick of it. That was the first time Crowley discovered that a shower was useful for hiding the sound of sobbing when there was someone else in your space who would notice a miracled soundproofing.

But, Crowley reminded themself, now they didn’t have to hold back. All those little impulses, small foolish desires that had built up over the course of history—their history—could now be realized. They  _ could _ lie down on the bookshop sofa and pillow their head in Aziraphale’s thighs. They  _ could _ reach over and muss the angel’s hair, making them both shudder with pleasure and raise the goosebumps their corporation apparently excelled at when Aziraphale was involved. It didn’t mean the same thing, they knew. But Crowley was a pragmatist, they reminded themself. They’d take what they could get, and the vision of Aziraphale falling apart under their hands, around their cock, buried deep in Crowley, well. It certainly did not disappoint.

Aziraphale gave up fairly quickly with trying to make Crowley participate in zir post-action dissections but seemed to think it was like their lunch dates, when ze devoured four courses and Crowley sipped on a single espresso, sustained by the angel’s pleasure. And now they were apparently on a no-holds-barred tour of the culinary world. Crowley took up showering* with unprecedented enthusiasm.

*This backfired when Aziraphale recalled that shower sex was A Thing. Ze often fretted about Crowley being cold, during, and apparently thought Crowley was making a subtle suggestion.

And every time Crowley tried to get some space, some time to process and compartmentalize and just recover a little bit, Aziraphale was there. Crowley started to take more frequent naps. But Aziraphale worried at them about it. 

“What if we went for a walk instead?” 

“If you’re feeling tired, I could make you a coffee? Or one of those horrifying ‘energy drinks,’ if you absolutely must.”

“But we have tickets to the theater!”

“Oh I see, thinking about the ‘horizontal tango,’ are we?”

“Is there something wrong?”

“What can I do?”

“Crowley, is there something wrong? You can tell me, dearest, please.”

The breaking point was when Aziraphale presented them with a sex-themed version of Twister from the shop down the road.*

*The owner, after having seen Aziraphale potter about for several decades, had been so ecstatic that “you finally found someone, Mr. Fell!” that Aziraphale counted the purchase as one of zir daily blessings. Not that Heaven was keeping track anymore, but really that just freed zir up.

“Look, Crowley! Isn’t this clever! You spin to select body parts and then again to see where they go. You’re so deliciously flexible, I simply cannot wait to—"

“I can’t do this anymore.”

“But...we haven’t even begun?”

“Not Twister.”

Aziraphale looked even more horrified than Gabriel had when Crowley shot hellfire at him and the other heavenly wankers. The fact that they were even reaching to that moment for comparison really said it all.

“Crowley, what—”

It was absolutely fucking crucial that they neither look at the angel’s face nor allow Aziraphale to finish that sentence. Any sentence. Because Crowley will fold. Like they always do. Like they always have.

“I can’t be just one more entry in your sodding sex diary.”

“What do you—sex diary?!”

“Of coursse that’s what you focus on,” Crowley hissed. Angry was good. Anger was fuel. “This was a mistake. My missstake. My fault. This was all my mistake.”

And then Crowley was moving. As Hastur had discovered, Crowley might be a connoisseur of sloth, but they can move very quickly indeed when they want to.

* * *

Aziraphale fell into one of the bookshop’s chairs. Looked up and felt the oddest sense of deja vu. Realized. Of course. This was where Aziraphale had been when Metatron told zir wars should be won, not avoided. Why did everything that Aziraphale loved hurt them so much?

Ze really shouldn’t be so stunned. It wasn’t as though Aziraphale hadn’t seen this coming. Something like this, anyway. Some part of Aziraphale had been preparing for this ever since Dagon walked out the bookshop door. The demon lord had thought Aziraphale would be furious. Wrathful enough to Fall, even. Instead ze just felt numb.* Gabriel would think ze was pathetic. Michael too. Uriel. How much softer could you get than just crumpling when your happiness walked out the door? Dagon wouldn’t have been offering zir a place in Hell if she saw this, Aziraphale thought, and grimaced. Why was Aziraphale even thinking about that?! It wasn’t an offer ze would ever take. 

*Could one  _ feel _ numb? Wasn’t it, by definition, the absence of feeling? It was the kind of question Aziraphale would have debated with Crowley. Over some scrumptious dish of Sichuan peppers, probably, tongue tingling all the while. Or deep into their cups.

However. Aziraphale  _ had _ seen this coming. Ze might be soft. But ze wasn’t stupid. Or willing to give up easily.

A week later, Aziraphale waved goodbye to a pair of Classics professors and their gaggle of PhD students. Aziraphale had met the professors while acquiring a notebook rumored to be John Milton’s personal notes on Shakespeare and kept up the acquaintance over tea, email, and free critiques of their articles before publication. It turned out they would be very happy indeed to take over as stewards of the bookshop’s collection, on the terms that they were welcome to study whatever manuscripts they wished so long as nothing was sold. Aziraphale should take as long as ze wished on zir travels, the academics repeatedly assured zir. Ze thought a few of the doctoral students who had not yet visited the bookshop were crying. They simply overflowed with pure joy, wonder, and love of knowledge. It spoke to the dead place in Aziraphale’s soul and hopefully would sustain zir until ze could find Crowley and make all of this right again.

Aziraphale caught up* to the Bentley in Amsterdam. It was idling, Crowley apparently contemplating eating one of their “magic brownies.” Aziraphale opened the door and slid into the passenger seat, neon lights casting uneasy echoes of a rainy night in Soho.

*If Aziraphale extended zir senses, ze would know when a demon was in the same general area. The range wasn’t that expansive, but Aziraphale also knew Crowley very well.** Ze wasn’t sure how, or even if, the same mechanism worked for Crowley.

**Or at least, ze hoped ze did.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale started, but the demon opened the driver’s side door and sprinted off into the night. Aziraphale staked out the car, even after the city authorities towed it to some sort of holding facility. But Crowley did not return.

Crowley had always maintained that the Aztecs mis-interpreted that vision of the serpent and the eagle fighting on top of the cactus. “The serpent had that eagle right where he wanted it, angel, why doesn’t anyone see that? Just wait five minutes. Five ssseconds! Then you’ll see. Then they’d alllll see. Why don’t they put  _ that _ on the flag, mmm?” Crowley probably would have claimed the same about the hat stand Aziraphale found them assaulting* in Texcoco, drunk out of their mind with significantly more tequila than the bar owner had thought they had on hand.

*It was unclear what Crowley believed the hat stand guilty of, since they were shouting in extremely archaic Nahuatl as well as being three sheets to the wind. A tall mirror near the hatstand had been broken in the scuffle. Aziraphale appeased the bar owner by surreptitiously miracling it back together as well as paying Crowley’s tab. But then all of the tequila was miraculously back in its bottles, and Aziraphale couldn’t disengage from the bar owner’s shock and awe quickly enough to stop a newly sober demon from fleeing.

Aziraphale tried Ibiza next, then Istanbul, then Cape Town. Bangkok. Singapore. LA. Las Vegas. New Orleans. Bristol. Rome. Back to Amsterdam.* Berlin. If Crowley was determined to be out of their mind, then Aziraphale would visit every spot still standing that ze could ever remember Crowley bingeing. It was in the Confeitaria Colombo, staring without appetite at what was no doubt a very delicious flan that a very tired Aziraphale had a moment of insight. A single shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds and illuminated a single leaf,** alone in a stylized masterpiece of stained glass. Ze went to Curitiba and its famous Botanical Garden.

*Seeing the Bentley still lonely in the municipal lot with a layer of dried dust coating the exterior was what Aziraphale should have expected. But it hurt all the same.

**Some quiet, eternally hopeful part of Aziraphale wondered if this was Her influence at work. Ze wanted to think so, certainly. But zir faith had taken something of a beating since the day the world hadn’t ended.

Aziraphale found a comfortable spot in the main greenhouse and settled in. Crowley, ze guessed, had been exerting a significant amount of their power to cloaking their presence. It made sense that demons would have such tricks, to avoid the notice of angels. But Crowley was here, somewhere, Aziraphale was sure. And if the demon was in the city, they would surely come to see the plants. Aziraphale could wait. Aziraphale would wait. And if not every human* to visit the Jardim Botânico de Curitiba was struck with awe for Her creation, more than enough were to restore Aziraphale’s tattered spiritual reserves.

*For instance, those whose hearts had all the vitality of dried prunes.

It took Aziraphale quite by surprise when one of the tourists poked zir shoulder and held out a cellular telephone.

“Um, hey,” the man said, looking more than a little confused. “She says, um, I should give the phone to you?”

Aziraphale blinked but slowly held out a hand.

“Hello,” Aziraphale said cautiously and then, pleading with Her that maybe somehow, “...Crowley?”

“I’m sorry, Aziraphale,” said Anathema Device. “I really am. But it’s just me.”

Aziraphale felt, for the first time, tears threatening to fall. It was wonderful to hear a friendly voice, after traveling alone for so long, and yet. And yet. Ze had hoped.

“Always good to hear from you, my dear girl,” Aziraphale said, in what ze thought was an admirably steady voice given the circumstances. Anathema exhaled like someone had socked her in the stomach.

“What if, um, what if you came back to Tadfield?” she asked. “You could stay with me and Newt in the cottage, spend some time with Adam and the Them.”

“Tadfield?”

“Warlock’s not too far away either, you know, you could visit him at his boarding school. On the way to Tracy’s cottage, even.”

Aziraphale smiled sadly. It did sound lovely, but.

“Is Crowley there?” ze asked.

“No,” she said finally. “They’re not.”

“Well, then, as much as I--”

“--but Aziraphale,” Anathema interrupted. “You need to stop.”

Aziraphale was quiet.*

“Crowley asked me, to ask you. To stop.”

*Fortunately, the man who’d handed over the phone had twigged onto the fact that something emotional was happening. He was very carefully looking at everyone and everything except Aziraphale’s face. Thank goodness for small mercies.

“I see.”

“They’re not in Curitiba anymore.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said again. “Are they. Alright?”

“About as alright as you sound,” she said. “Aziraphale, this isn’t healthy, not for either of you, you need some support, and Crowley needs some time, and--” Anathema spoke quickly, as if she sensed Aziraphale’s finger hovering over the End Call button before it descended and severed their connection.

* * *

Michael watched uneasily as Aziraphale handed the phone back to the tourist and touched him on the shoulder, imparting a small blessing for safe travels.

“Thank you, my dear sir,” Aziraphale said, with a smile that seemed to alarm the human. “It was most generous for you to lend us the use of your phone.” Ze walked mechanically to the exit, zir aura inspiring humans to spontaneously burst into tears as ze went. 

Michael looked down at her report, where under “Objective: Eliminate the traitors,” she had written “Result: Wishes they were dead.” This had, of course, been the goal. 

So why did she feel so shit* about it?

*As Dagon would say.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: mentions of depressed behavior

The Principality really tried to let Crowley go. Dagon would give zir that. Tried living in Tadfield. Living in London. Living in Manchester.* Living anywhere except England. Aziraphale’s corporation began to change, even, to drift. Humans started addressing zir as “Ma’am” more often than not, especially during that one brief stint in Louisiana. Michael even started to visit the other angel. She was close-lipped about what they even did** together, just made it exceedingly clear that Dagon was not invited. Aziraphale fell in and out of touch with zir human friends, depending on ze’s current philosophy about Secondhand Crowley Contact. The humans did what they could, but at the end of the day they had lives to live and only a mortal lifespan in which to do it. They moved on.

*Michael  _ really _ didn’t understand that one at first, but when Dagon told her the city had been one of Crowley’s pet projects, comprehension dawned.

**Dagon really couldn’t even begin to imagine. All Michael would say was “moral support.” It was blessed weird.

But the humans kept coming up with ever more ways to track and contact and watch one another, and Crowley always had attracted more attention than was strictly wise. Aziraphale might not have been a natural techie, but* even the thorniest of computer codes was no match for a highly intelligent angel.

*Given sufficient motivation. For instance, red-haired, long-legged, sarcastic, and stupidly sweet motivation.

In the end, there was really only one place in creation where Crowley could go and Aziraphale categorically could not follow.

“Welcome back to Hell,” Dagon said and held out her hand to shake. “It’s bad to have you back.”

Crowley glared at her hand like it might bite them and obnoxiously scanned all around her office for possible booby-traps. Apparently satisfied that Dagon hadn’t brought them here just to assassinate* them, Crowley shook her hand. She gestured at the other desk in the room, carefully positioned such that Dagon would always have a clear view of whatever Crowley was doing if she glanced up.**

*Very reasonable concern to have, all things considered. Specifically considering the thing where Dagon had previously been ordered to exterminate Crowley if at all possible and by any means necessary. Not that they knew this, exactly.

**Otherwise known as the least desirable desk in any open office environment

“You’ll be working with me, here, in Filing and Torments,” she said. “Hastur has strict orders from Lord Beelzebub zirself not to mess with you, but stay out of his way, alright?”

Crowley grunted. They flopped into their chair and then kicked the desk to make them spin. Dagon put removing that functionality on tomorrow’s To-Do list. Crowley picked up one of the fountain pens on the desk. It immediately exploded goopy red ink all over their new job description paperwork, Dagon’s wall calendar* of seascape photography, and the brand new not-yet-irredemably-sticky computer keyboard she had procured for the red-haired little worm. Dagon narrowed her eyes.

*A present from Michael.

“You’re here on my sufferance, snake, if that wasn’t clear. So watch it.”

“Ssssssure,” Crowley drawled. “I’ll try not to kill anybody.”

If Dagon had been Hastur, she would’ve killed them. If Dagon had been Beelzebub, she would’ve tossed their scaly ass into the sulfur pits for a century or two to soften them up. But Dagon was Dagon.* She doubled over and laughed uproariously until tears streamed down her cheeks. Crowley’s eyebrows rose as they watched her, face opaque even without the sunglasses but apparently finally unnerved.

*A Dagon, moreover, who’d spent the last several decades watching the life slowly wither out of a Crowley who spent more and more time as a snake. She hadn’t been certain that the Serpent of Eden was really there anymore. But while any imp would pull stupid stunts with office furniture on reflex** only Crowley had that level of cheek.

**This was why Dagon hated imps.

“You do that. Except the little shits who try and file a Form CTCH-22 for ‘vacation days.’ They’re fair game.” Crowley sniffed.

“I always knew those were a myth.”

“Yes, well done, you’re a very smart serpent.” Dagon snapped and a small plastic-wrapped packet dropped from the ceiling to land on their desk, smack in the middle of the ink swamp. “Crowley have a cracker. Now get to work.”

  
  


Hell being Hell* and demons being demons, the concept of “night” didn’t really figure in to the daily routine. Nonetheless, Crowley had been up on Earth for a longass time, and Dagon knew they enjoyed sleeping. But there was a difference between glorying in Sloth and ...whatever it was Crowley was doing, when she came back to the office and found them curled up inside their desk drawer as a snake for the fifth time.

*i.e. underground

“Get back to work,” she said. They did. Without a single smart remark. Dagon waited for several minutes before realizing none was coming. Yeah, okay, no. She pretended to do something with a spreadsheet while watching Crowley, and yup, there it was. They slowly melted, until the only part of the demon left above desk level was a pile of unkempt reddish hair.

“Oy,” she said. No response. “You asleep?”

“...yeah.”

“Then wake up, buttercup.”

Crowley mumbled something inaudible.

“What was that?”

“...why.”

“Why what?” Dagon said, frowning but feeling like they were getting somewhere now. Crowley was silent for a while. She waited.

“Why bother waking up?” Crowley said, finally, quietly. “No point, is there.”

“I need you to **—** ”

“ **—** no. You don’t,” Crowley said. “You were fine before I got here. Fine for millennia. Don’t actually  _ need _ an assistant.” 

“And you would know that how?”

“Then get someone else. Whole Hell full of demons,” Crowley said. And then quieter, what Dagon imagined she was not supposed to hear, “No one needs  _ me _ .”

Dagon considered. There were things that Crowley categorically could not know that she knew.* But she also recalled the fourteenth century. And the turn of the twentieth. This was serious. And it wasn’t going to go away on its own.

*Starting with Aziraphale’s name and pretty much following that theme all the way down to “I convinced the love of your life that you just wanted a wham-bam, thank you ma’am, and the love** of my life convinced you that they were about to leave.”

** _ Shit _ and that was something Dagon had been trying very hard to avoid consciously realizing.

“When was the last time you tempted a human?” she asked, suspicion rising as she mentally flicked back through her Crowley-Watching Log.

“Dunno.”

Dagon snapped. Crowley had at least enough energy to realize (and care) what that usually meant. They caught the phone that dropped from thin air before it smacked them in the head and pulled it under the hair curtain.

“This is an iPhone.”

“Always did think the ‘Apple’ thing was clever.”

“Why did you drop it on my head.”

“It has an internet connection.”

A pause. Crowley’s back twisted, giving Dagon the impression that she was under observation.

“How, for the love of Satan, did you put Microsoft Edge on an iPhone?” Crowley asked, tone triangulating somewhere between suspicious, confused, and reluctantly intrigued. “And I thought you said Hell couldn’t get wifi.”

“I said  _ you _ couldn’t* get wifi,” Dagon corrected. “But you need to sow a little sin. Design a little discord. Incite a little indignation. Foment a little furor.”

*Because they would just use it to cyberstalk Aziraphale and then scroll endlessly through the depths of Reddit.

“Why.”

“I’ll leave you alone to sleep if you do.”

“...fine.” Crowley slowly uncurled enough to lay their torso across the desk, staring at the phone. A few hours later, social media and several university neuroscience breakrooms ground to a halt under the weight of the entire internet collectively losing their minds over whether some random dress was blue and black or white and gold. Crowley smiled. 

Dagon chucked one of her mummified eyeballs* at the back of Crowley’s head to get their attention. They twitched slightly so it whiffed over their sunglasses and directly into the mouth of the imp who’d just walked in. He screeched and clawed at his throat as Crowley reclined much further back than their chair** had been designed to do and looked at Dagon upside-down.

*Courtesy of the damned who had been voyeurs in life. Made for excellent stress-relief balls.

**Crowley learned very quickly that Dagon loved her office chairs above all*** else. They consequently took great pleasure in destroying and disabling the chairs in a number of creative ways, as fast as Dagon could fix them.

***Except for the exception that she didn’t talk or think about. Obviously.

“Yes, boss?”

“Get the Dark Council to agree on a date. I don’t need all of them, just a voting quorum. This Project Troll situation is getting out of hand.”

“Wow, gosh, shocking, what a totally unforseeable outcome. Who could have possibly predicted that.”

“Don’t need to convince me,” Dagon muttered and crumpled all the Troll-related reports together into a ball for safe-keeping. She glanced up and was surprised to find Crowley* studying her.

*Still upside-down, mind you.

“Why do you do it, then?” they asked, almost too quietly to be heard over the imp’s retching. “If you know it’s idiotic.”

The disadvantage of being reclined so far back that your head was below the level of your navel was that it severely restricted your mobility. The next eyeball nailed Crowley directly in the forehead before it bounced back to Dagon’s hand. She glared.

“Scheduler. Pronto.”

“You know me,” Crowley said while somehow slithering upright in what was no doubt a thoroughly broken chair. “Live to serve.”

  
  


Dagon, naturally, took great pride in maintaining a completely neutral and professional demeanor when Michael called. Even when it was on her personal phone, not the office line.

“Hello, my dashing octopoda. I find myself alone in the office with nothing to do. Very bored. Might you assist me?”

Even when it was one of  _ these _ calls.

“Uh, yeah, definitely,” she said. She covered the receiver with her hand and kicked Crowley’s chair to get their attention. “Lord Beelzebub needs me. Might be a few hours. You hold down the fort till then, nothing on fire that’s not supposed to be on fire, got it?”

Crowley stuck two fingers up in an obscene gesture and then wiggled them good-bye. Dagon’s eyes narrowed. That was suspiciously compliant.

“And make sure everything that’s  _ supposed _ to be on fire  _ stays _ that way.”

Crowley sighed dramatically.

“You spoil all my fun, boss.”

When she came back, cheerfully whistling a vaguely off-key version of “The Song That Never Ends,” Dagon found that something had gone unexpectedly and dramatically wrong with the plumbing. Water Torture inflow, Demonic Sewage outflow, and Sulfur Lake Drainage* somehow got their valves messed up and created a massive noxious flood. In a small vat directly above her archives. 

*One could only hope. Or one could, if they weren’t Dagon. If there  _ was _ a physical bottom to the lake, she was pretty damned certain they would have found it before now. But it made for very satisfying torture for the kind of theological philosopher who asks if God could make a rock that God could not lift or summons demons for a hands-on experimental trial re: “how many angels can dance on the head of a pin?” 

The last three centuries of Demonic Disobedience case reports were a total loss, with additional damage in Demonic Discorporations and Demonic Distinguishments. She felt the migraine* brewing behind her temple as she surveyed the damage. Crowley, decked out in truly eye-wateringly neon pink wading gear, sloshed through the water towards her. It was still knee-height and reeked with a godforsaken** odor that would’ve discorporated all the demons on the spot if they’d been incorporated to begin with. Crowley flailed their arms about and shrugged expansively, making big eyes of picture-perfect innocent*** confusion at Dagon. Joke was on them. She was just too well-fucked to be truly Wrathful. Wouldn’t stop her assigning Crowley to re-type the lot, though.

*That occult entities really shouldn’t even be able to get but that everyone surrounding Dagon appeared to continually bless her with.

**Literally.

***Sure.

All in all, Dagon felt like she had her life pretty well sorted.* She was actually enjoying her and Crowley’s running battle over office chair** mechanics. Might’ve been all the time she spent getting angelic massages that made her less concerned about ergonomics. She and Michael had long since sold Beez and the good-for-nothing purple-eyed fucker on the advantages of keeping backchannels open.*** And it was, really, a better system than they’d had before. Who knew that by a bit of simple coordination that in no way resembled an Arrangement, everything would run so much more smoothly?

*As Crowley would inform her later in an irritatingly superior tone, this was her first big mistake.

**The chairs, however, were not. OfficeDepot had not prepared them for the true meaning of the phrase “tortured metal.”

***That the backchannels in question often ended up getting eaten out, archangel and demon lord taking turns whimpering in ecstasy with slickness dripping down their thighs, well. That really wasn’t any of Beelzebub or Gabriel’s concern, now was it?

All this was to say that Dagon was really not prepared to sit down at the Dark Council’s conference table and, while munching on her jelly-filled cronut, see Beelzebub advance the Prezi to a slide that said, simply and in big, bold, red letters: Armageddon 2.0.

_ Fuck _ . 

* * *

_ Requires significant immediate improvement. _

That was the first thing Michael thought when Dagon delivered the news, several hours later over a display of cheery index cards in an emergency meeting at the Tokyu Hands flagship store. She opened her mouth, not really knowing what to say. There were emotions she was feeling that she could not categorize. Surely, they could...there would...the Almighty wasn’t...

“I don’t want to lose you,” Michael said. She blinked. Yes. That was the truth. She would figure out the corollaries to that simple, undeniable, central fact later. A voice in her head* warned that it might not be so simple, but Michael pushed considering that possibility firmly down in her mental priority list.

*Which sounded irritatingly like Aziraphale.

Dagon met Michael’s eyes and searched them. What she was looking for, Michael didn’t know, but she was suddenly very concerned what would happen if Dagon didn’t find it. The demon reached up to cradle her jaw with one chill, clammy hand while she looked. Finally apparently satisfied, Dagon exhaled raggedly and looked away.

“Yeah, Michael. Exactly my thought.” Dagon was blushing, a sight that never failed to make Michael think of dawn pinking the ocean sky after Earth made it through another stormy night. “But, um. You know. About you.”

“Yes,  _ octopoda _ . I know.” 

Dagon wrinkled her nose reflexively, the way she always did to pretend she hated Michael’s pet name* for her.

*According to Aziraphale, this was a human invention that allowed one to convey casual affection during regular speech. Crowley had apparently often called Aziraphale “angel,” though it was unclear whether this had begun as such a name or more as a useful descriptive term. By the time it was “angel” in English, Aziraphale had said quietly, ze rather thought it was affectionate but perhaps ze had been very wrong.** Dagon could transform into whatsoever species of octopus she wished, as well as several forms that Michael was positive did not follow the guidelines that She had designed in any strict sense. Thus,  _ Octopoda _ : the scientific order into which all octopuses fell.

**Michael generally steered their conversations away from this topic.

“Did your traitor have any pertinent suggestions?” Michael asked. Dagon’s mouth flattened into a grim line.

“The opposite, actually. Recommended Hell ease off on the whole game of Musical Infants and let the human mother actually, you know, do the ‘bringing into the world’ bit rather than sending Hastur up with a picnic basket. Much less complicated, much less chance for something to oh-so-accidentally* go wrong.”

*Michael and Dagon had once spent a very pleasant evening debating whether the traitors had, in fact, planned the whole debacle. Michael inclined towards yes. Dagon believed they were “flying by the seat of their pants which were also on fire.” The final judgment was inconclusive.

“How long do we have?”

“Depends on what you mean.” Dagon was shaking slightly.* “Apparently the baby needs to grow for nine months in the lucky woman or the humans’ll get freaked out. After that, sixteen is the new magic birthday. So about seventeen years. Give or take.”

*Michael generally enjoyed watching Dagon shudder but had never experienced this particular variety before. She did not care for it. She had, in fact, a  _ very _ strong desire to put her spear through the gut of the being(s)** who had caused it.

**She had vivid memories of stabbing Lucifer in a number of very tender parts, as a matter of fact. And that hadn’t even been personal.

“Is anyone going to Appear to the family?”

“What?”

“In the case of the Christ child,” Michael said, “Gabriel was sent to tell the mother-to-be that the baby was the Lord’s. To prepare her for what was to come.”

“Gabriel?!!”

“Quite.”

Dagon stopped trembling, at least, apparently fascinated by imagining just how deeply distressing that experience must have been. For all involved, really. Gabriel was not particularly skilled at dealing with humans and ignored Uriel’s rather pointed suggestion that he enlist Aziraphale’s aid.

“Woooooow. You’re lucky it didn’t all go sideways right then, end up with an Antichrist before the Christ. Definitely what I would’ve done.”

“Of course you would have. You’re  _ you _ .” Dagon snorted. “It wasn’t **—** ” Michael started to say and then snapped her jaw shut. What had she just been about to say?  _ It wasn’t who I would have chosen _ . That was a true statement. But it hadn’t been her doing the choosing. It had been the Almighty.* Who did not make mistakes. But whose decision she had been about to criticize. And to a demon **—** a demon lord, no less! As they strategized about how to stop the Great **—** the Ineffable? **—** definitely the Great **—**

*Presumably. The Metatron had said so, anyway.

“ **—** Michael?” Dagon said, possibly not for the first time, and put a cautious hand on her shoulder. Apparently she was now the one who was shaking. “You alright?”

“Of course not,” Michael snapped. “This entire situation is extremely distressing on a number of levels.”

“Uh, yeah,” Dagon said, letting her hand drop from Michael’s shoulder* and taking a cautious step backwards. “Anyway, no need for anything like that. Family’s a bunch of witches **—** Satanists, you know the type. Apparently the couple’ve been petitioning His Satanic Majesty for a child for years, so he just granted it. Like, an hour ago. In significantly more literal terms than I’d guess they had in mind, but ‘devil’s** in the details’ and all that, what’s new.”

*Which was a perfectly reasonable temperature that had not been affected in the least by Dagon holding it. It should not feel cold now that her hand was gone, Michael told her corporation sternly. If anything, Dagon’s body was usually on the chilly side.

**Or devilspawn, in this particular case.

“A ticking clock,” Michael said. Dagon blinked.

“What?”

“That’s what’s new. A ticking clock.” Michael knew what she needed to do; there was literally only one being in the universe who could appreciate her situation. “I’ll be in touch,” she said. “Keep me informed of any changes.”

“Um, ‘kay,” Dagon called, but Michael was already on her way down the escalator.

A few hours later, the Archangel Michael was in Kyoto. Staring down a dog. The little mongrel growled at her. She snarled, revealing her teeth. They both advanced a pace. Inoue-san, the girl on shift at the cafe register, giggled. 

“Apologies, Michael-san, it’s just that Dog is so friendly to all the customers, but every time you come in...it’s like this.”

Michael turned her head slightly to reply, but taking her eyes off “Dog” even for a moment was a mistake. The Hellish little beast leapt at her, no doubt intent on ripping out Michael’s throat, but Aziraphale suddenly appeared and snatched it out of the air. Ze clasped Dog to what had become a rather substantial bosom and tsked.

“Lovely to see you, Michael, my dear. I’m sure that one of these days Dog here,” ze scratched in-between the hellhound’s* ears, “will realize you mean no harm.”

*The mongrel made a solid effort at continuing to maintain hostilities, but animals tended to be overcome rather quickly when Aziraphale pet them. Even hell-spawned ones, apparently.

Michael doubted this **—** on several levels **—** but they had significantly more pressing issues to discuss. She glanced around the crowded* shop, full of humans and books and cats and tea and, especially, phones logged into a variety of image-based social media services. It was Michael’s own fault, really, since she was the one who explained both Instagram and #aesthetic to the other angel.

*This will require some explanation. While searching for Crowley in Osaka, Aziraphale learned of the “manga cafe” bookshop business model. Customers came inside the shop and then, after purchasing cakes and tea, sat and read until they were ready to leave. Thus **—** Michael understood this to be the crucial point **—** there was no danger of anyone trying to take any of the books away. Aziraphale had never been such a successful businessperson-shaped creature, even before ze realized one might add cats into the equation.

“Might we speak in private?” Michael asked.

“Be my guest,” Aziraphale said. “Inoue-chan, you can manage?”

“Of course, Azira-san. Especially if you leave our Assistant Manager to protect me.”

“Indeed.” Aziraphale let Dog jump out of zir arms. Ze pointed a stern finger at the hellhound. “You mind the shop and behave for Inoue-chan,” ze said. Dog barked once in reply. And then, despite being a supernatural creature with no need for such corporeal trivialities as a digestive system, raised a leg and pissed directly on Michael’s shoe before trotting off to the cafe, tail wagging. That mongrel was  _ very _ lucky she needed to speak to Aziraphale as soon as angelically possible.

Aziraphale sat very still when Michael finished delivering the news.

“So soon.”

“Yes.”

They stared at each other. Aziraphale’s ferret* Anthony wiggled out of her burrow and climbed into zir lap to be pet.

*Or “cat-snake,” as ze liked to call it.

“Michael,” Aziraphale said slowly, “why are you here?”

Michael frowned. Was this not obvious?

“You must know that I’m. Well. That I’m not coming back to the flock, as it were. I told the Quartermaster then that I had  _ no _ intention of fighting in  _ any _ war. You have been...kind to me, visiting so often these past lonely years. But I have not changed my mind. I will not. You must know this.”

“I **—** ” Michael started but realized she was shaking again. Disgraceful. She took a calming breath* and settled herself. “I am here because there is a demon with whom I do not wish to fight.”

*When had she started spending so much time on Earth that she breathed regularly? That a “calming breath” for her corporation would have any effect?

“Ah,” Aziraphale said. Ze was silent for a long moment. “Your ‘friend.’”

“Yes.”

Aziraphale trailed a finger through the sleek black fur on Anthony’s back. The silence stretched again, almost to Michael’s fidgety breaking point, when Aziraphale continued.

“Why are  _ you _ , a general who could surely arrange matters so as never to come face-to-face with this demon in battle,  _ here _ ? Talking to  _ me _ ?”

Michael scowled. Aziraphale was being impossible. Obviously it was unacceptable for any of the Host to meet Dagon in battle. It was unacceptable for Dagon to be in battle, in danger in the first place! And what would they do after? Dagon could not come to Heaven.* Michael certainly had no intention of Falling.**

*Could she?

**Aziraphale had not Fallen for working against the previous apocalypse. Michael had reminded herself of this several times on the journey to Kyoto. Clearly, then, what she was planning was acceptable angelic behavior. Aziraphale had not Fallen for performing demonic temptations, for heaven’s sake!

“Who else but you could understand?” Michael said, rather louder than she had meant to. Did Aziraphale not appreciate that time was of the essence? “You, who sabotaged the first Armageddon for love? You, who defied Heaven to be with the Demon Crowley?”

“This demon.” Aziraphale sounded very strange, but Michael was feeling the flutter of something she thought might be panic and really could not spare mental reserves to decipher zir right now. “What is their name?”

“Dagon,” she said. Aziraphale stood up abruptly, dislodging Anthony from her comfortable perch.

“Dagon, Lord of the Files.”

“Yes.” Michael would keep her composure. She would  _ not  _ be reduced to wringing her hands in front of a Principality.

“Doing some more recruiting for Hell, is she?” Aziraphale said. Michael was answering before she processed that the other angel had not sounded like ze was asking a question.

“What? No, of course not, that’s idiotic. Focus, Aziraphale! We need--”

“The  _ arrogance _ ,” Aziraphale said, interrupting her. Zir wings flashed, in that other space, flared in a full threat display. “You. Come here. To ask  _ me for help _ , when it was you, all along.” 

Oh.

“Visiting me, for all those years.” Aziraphale’s wings manifested fully into the physical plane, glowing bright and hot enough to singe the room’s wooden walls and plaster ceiling where the feathers brushed them. A fire extinguisher system went off somewhere, and Michael heard spurting water, shouts of dismay, and feline yowling from the main shop. “Pretending to be my  _ friend _ . You think I haven’t thought about it? What could have gone so, so wrong? You think I don’t ask myself that question every. single. day. You went to Crowley, didn’t you. Michael. That day. Like Dagon came to me.”

Oh. 

“ _ Get out of my shop _ .”

The last thing Michael thought, before Aziraphale suddenly had a sword in zir hand and the hellhound Dog came barrelling through the backroom door, was:

_ Fuck _ .


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Fire (in the text), very brief mentions of colonialist & anti-queer attitudes but no slurs or extended discussion, tears (yours and mine)

There are five important facts to understand about this situation.

  1. In any kind of fair fight, Michael* would wipe the floor with Aziraphale.**
  2. A fight between Person A, who wanted to come around for a cup of tea and a chat, and Person B, who is convinced you purposefully destroyed not only their own life but that of the one they love, is emphatically not a fair fight.
  3. Michael was not at all certain that the flames ignited by Aziraphale’s wings and licking their way across the room towards her were entirely earthly.***
  4. Before he died, Adam told Dog his new job was to take care of Aziraphale.



*Vanquisher of Satan, you recall.

**Demoted from cherubim, mislaid heavenly weapon, and several millennia out of practice.

***Hellfire is not a weapon familiar with concepts like “reasonable margin of error.”

And, most crucially:

5\. Inoue Rika had been elected Class Representative every year of her education and had absolutely zero intention of leaving anyone, feline or canine or most especially that sweet Azira-san, behind in a fire.

A number of things happened very quickly. Aziraphale rushed Michael with a sword that—while not the one entrusted to zir by the Almighty—was definitively “flaming like anything.” Michael manifested her celestial shield* and knocked Aziraphale backwards but did not entirely sidestep Dog’s leap. The (former) Hellhound** got a mouthful of (formerly) coiffed angel hair. The mass of even a small dog, applied both unexpectedly and at speed to the back of the head, will mess with your balance. Michael fell backwards and let her shield drop to keep ahold of her sword. 

*Which, along with her sword and spear, constantly accompanied Michael in the same ethereal space as her wings.

**Turned angelic service and support dog.

Aziraphale saw zir opening and charged forward, raising zir sword to strike, just as Inoue-san burst through the door into the smoke-filled backroom. She had a wheezing calico cat slung over her shoulder, a ginger clinging to her arm, and a very loud voice yelling for Aziraphale and Michael to follow the sound of that voice to safety. Although she could not appreciate it, this was extremely ironic, as she stood directly in-between Aziraphale’s descending sword and Michael’s neck.

* * *

At least this time no one expected _them_ to change the nappies, Crowley thought. The Spellmans apparently handled both earthly arrivals (midwifery) as well as departures (mortuary). Between their witchy powers and regular visits from “Aunt* Crowley,” the tricky bit in the middle should also be all sewn up. All sixteen bloody years of it that were left.

*The more they hung out with Dagon, the more their presentation slid towards feminine. They were not entirely sure how to feel about this. Was it a case of “follow the leader?” When they’d been reporting to Hastur, it generally slid the other way. That would be distressing in the extreme. Or was it a subconscious effort to irritate Dagon and the butch vibe that had reigned in Filing and Torments since before that word was A Thing. It would be rather pleasing to think that even their corporation had lent its subconscious efforts to The Cause.** Either way, they’d been rocking absolutely killer heels.

**Of irritating their supervisor.

Even back in Hell, slowly spinning around in Dagon’s chair,* Crowley’s mind was stuck on the image of the Spellman witches,** huddled together all embracing the infant Antichrist 2.0. You didn’t have to be an angel*** to see the love between them. Especially given that the girl produced an ungodly**** volume of noise wholly disproportionate to her size. 

*If you wore the base out _just so_ , the natural motion of sitting made it squeak out a fart noise.

**Only one of whom, the Antichrist 2.0’s cousin Ambrose, Crowley had met before. The human was a good sort, even if he had been running with Aleister “Crowley” at the time. Crowley had been curious about exactly what manner of magic-human had been ballsy enough to take _their_ chosen name. They had not, to put it mildly, had not been impressed. And, really, blow up the Vatican? Place was so desecrated after the Renaissance that it was more like a demonic spa than hallowed ground.

***Not that Crowley was thinking about an angel. Or angels, in general. Nope.

****Checked out.

Given that both of her parents had just died horribly in some kind of freak airplane crash, it was a fairly understandable reaction. But Crowley was tolerably certain she was too young to _know_ her parents were dead. Unless, of course... _Things don’t happen to_ him _, angel,*_ he _happens to everything_. That was the nature of the beast. Adam turned out well. Really well. Really, really well, even. But that had been largely the result of their incompetence. And it had still been touch and go on The Day, the way The Them told it. It was just difficult to square that knowledge with the reality of the baby they’d taken from her newly deceased parents’ home and brought to the Spellman Mortuary. Her big eyes, quivering pink lips, and mussed-up messy blond halo reminded them much more of—nope. Crowley pulled a mental U-turn away** from that thought. 

*Whom Crowley was _not_ thinking about.

**Before certain words starting with A and ending with L or, Somebody help them, E, could even spring to mind.

  
  


Dagon suddenly appeared in the office. She sniffed suspiciously at Crowley, but they were sitting innocently at their own desk in their own chair. Well. For a value of “innocent” that included having their feet and four-inch stilettos up on the desk, black plaid skirt riding scandalously high up their thighs. Dagon sat down carefully and wrote out a brief note in what Crowley had taken to calling the Secret Apocalypse Octopus* book. This notebook fascinated Crowley. A fact that Dagon was unfortunately well aware of.

*So named because unlike more or less every other file of potential interest, Crowley had yet to get even a peek at this one. It appeared for the first time shortly after the Armageddon 2** meeting, and Dagon seemed to carry it actually on her person at all times. And it had a Lisa Frank-style illustration of an octopus on the front.

**Subtitle: But For Real We Mean It This Time, OK?

“His Infernal Majesty’s got a job for you,” Dagon said. 

“Pity I already work here.” She snorted.

“The Devil makes work for idle...feet. You’re to teach the girl how to dance.”

Crowley looked at Dagon over the lenses of their sunglasses.

“That’s funny, I thought I heard you give me a job that I would actually enjoy doing.”

“Almost like you’re actually a demon,” Dagon muttered. “Now shut up and get me the files on witches from the US northeast seaboard, deceased. Kid can’t even stand up yet, you’ve got time.”

  
  


When Sabrina did stand up and toddle her first step, Crowley was there.* She clung onto their hand and made a gesture startlingly like a curtsey for applause before looking up at Crowley with big brown eyes and grinning.

*Made sure she didn’t wobble her next one into the Pie of Eternal Sleep her Aunt Hilda had just put down to lure out the alpha rats of a demonic rat infestation.

The first “dance” they learned together was, her Aunt Zelda observed, really just an excuse for Crowley to play the Airplane Game. In the second, they whirled Sabrina around at speed like a human shot put, both of them arms outstretched and giggling like mad. Zelda was also unclear on the Satanic purpose* of this movement. The third dance Crowley taught her was Baby Shark, complete with a stuffed toy shark for musical back-up whose batteries were powered by demonic miracle and would neither run down nor be removed. Zelda stopped offering her opinions.

*Though Crowley caught her smiling fondly at Sabrina when she twirled herself round and round and round before eventually succumbing to dizzyness and flopping over. (“Uh-Oh!”)

Eventually they graduated to those favorites of American elementary-school physical education: the square dance, something supposedly related to indigenous culture and at the very least borderline offensive,* the macarena, and the YMCA. Crowley took great pleasure in sitting Sabrina down to explain the history** behind the YMCA dance, but it turned out someone had already beaten them to the punch.

*Crowley had claimed responsibility back in the day—sometimes the quarterly quota report snuck up on you, okay?—but really most of the blame landed on Walt Disney and _Peter Pan_.

**Largely spelled GAY.

“The librarian taught us. At school,” Sabrina said. “She knows a lot about ‘queer culture.’”

Crowley was genuinely impressed. Greendale wasn’t conservative, per se—there was a coven of witches and warlocks living right there, after all—but humans could be very shrieky, in Crowley’s experience, about kiddos and books. And then Sabrina tilted her head to the side and looked at Crowley with an expression that was very familiar* to her full-time aunts.

*It meant: WARNING. Beware the next words.

“You should meet her. I think you would Like-Like each other.” 

Crowley laughed and took a sip of the sparkling grape juice they were having in solidarity with Sabrina. This was a very popular concept at her school.

“Then you won’t be so lonely all the time,” she continued. Crowley, despite not possessing lungs that functioned in the traditional manner, choked.

“Out of the mouths of babes, mmm?” Sabrina’s Aunt Hilda said from the other side of the kitchen. Crowley* leveled a glare at her, but—like Anathema before her—witches tended to be underwhelmed when Crowley actually tried to intimidate them.

*And Sabrina, though hers was likely more outrage from being classed a “babe” rather than a mature, intelligent 10-year-old girl more than ready to learn the witch herbology she’d been pestering Hilda about.

“What’s her name, then?” Crowley asked. What the Hell. The Earth had, what, six more years left? Seven at a stretch? More than enough time to kill. “Maybe I will.”

“Really?” 

“Maybe.”

“Her name’s Ms. Fell.”

Everything in Crowley’s brain ground to a halt. If Sabrina said anything else, they didn’t hear it. It was _not possible_ that Aziraphale had been in Greendale this entire time. But who else could it possibly be? A school librarian? More likely than an actual bookshop owner. They stood up abruptly.

“I have to go.”

Once Crowley looked, Aziraphale was easy to find. The angel was making no effort to hide. Almost the opposite, in fact. Ze was sitting on a bench in zir cottage’s little garden when Crowley stalked through the incredibly twee little wooden gate.

“Hello, my dear,” Aziraphale said. Zir eyes were watering, drinking Crowley in from their long red hair through the lipstick perfectly matching it, through their slick leather jacket and black dress composed mostly of zippers* down to their snakeskin heels. “It’s so very, very good to see you. I hope...I hope that I’ve given you enough time. But we’re starting to run out.” Aziraphale tried to laugh, but the sound stumbled directly out of the gate and fell into a puddle of wet coughing. “Run out of time again.”

*That showed rather more skin than Crowley really wanted, now that they were here.

“Hello, Aziraphale.” Crowley could barely recognize their own voice. Aziraphale tapped the open seat on the bench, next to zir.

“Won’t you sit?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale shrunk down, but zir jaw firmed.* “There is something I’ve discovered that you must hear.”

*In an expression that Crowley had no difficulty recognizing as a warning.

“Let’s have it, then.”

“After the, well, the first apocalypse attempt and the, you know,” Aziraphale said, apparently having gained no directness in the years they’d been apart.

“I know.”

“We thought they would leave us alone. Both sides.” Aziraphale leaned forward and locked eyes with Crowley, even through their sunglasses. Blessed heaven Crowley hated that they could do that. “But they didn’t. Dagon came to see me, and she—”

“I know.”

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped. Crowley stared at zir utter shock and felt the wrath surging up, wrath they thought they had long since dealt* with.

*Turns out “carve it into a dark place in your soul where you don’t have to think about it ever again” was not as effective as hoped.

“My dear, I really don’t think—”

“Yessss. I do. Now, I mean. Not then.” Crowley sucked in a large intake of breath and looked at a spot somewhere over Aziraphale’s shoulder. “But I spent years, decades, in Filing and Torments. Dagon’s assistant. I took a blessed _thorough_ look* through the files on ‘Demonic Disobedience.’ And she hasn’t exactly been subtle about her ‘back-channeling’ with Michael.” 

*Crowley had, in fact, re-typed every single blessed word on every sheet of every ball of sodden paper that had been in that fucking filing cabinet. But explaining that would expose a level of pathetic, vulnerable need that they would not roll over and show right now. Right never, more like.

“So, you know...the hideous lies they told us.”

“Yes.”

“But then,” Aziraphale’s face was awash with confusion, hurt, and a very misplaced hope. “If you know, then you must understand, I—”

“What I _underssstand_ is that for centuries, no wait, scratch that, for actual literal _thousandsss_ _of years_ , you said, to me and to yourself, ‘oh, you’re a demon, you don’t love me, you couldn’t love me, not really. You’re a _demon_.’” 

Crowley had worked themself up into a proper cold rage, stabbing their arms about wildly to punctuate the words that had been sitting inside them ever since they untangled the whole sorry, shit-stained mess and doing a very whiny impersonation of Aziraphale. 

“Demonsss _lie_.” Crowley waited to let that sink in. Ze always was clever. And so, so, so stupid. 

“And then, the firssst time that Dagon—a _demon_ —tells you something about _me_ , what do you do? _You. Believe. Her_.”

Aziraphale opened zir mouth. Crowley ripped their sunglasses off and raised their eyebrows. Waited. Aziraphale closed zir mouth.

“That’s what I fucking thought.”

Crowley stormed out and, just to be spiteful, slammed the gate.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale shouted, more than a little frantic. Despite themself, Crowley stopped. “But you. If you. If you love me, then surely we can work—”

“ _If_ I love you, angel?” It was absolutely essential that Crowley get somewhere private and dark and just away from here, from Aziraphale, from all of this—before they started crying. “It’s only ever been you. Ever. You _know_ that I love you. For all the blessed, fucking, good that it’s done me.”

Sabrina was spared the indignity of attempting to tango and salsa for the first time in her Spanish class, with all the other 10-year-olds all desperately trying to recall whether _la izquierda_ was left or right and paying no attention at all to their feet. Crowley bought her real dancing heels for her 11th birthday. And did not think about Aziraphale.* At all.

*About Spain, and Spain before it was Spain, and twilight and wine and laughter.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No particular content warnings for this chapter.

_ About eleven years ago, in a bookshop/cat cafe that was no longer on fire. _

There had been no question, of course, of allowing Inoue-chan to come to harm. Aziraphale might not have Michael’s reflexes, or Crowley’s, but ze was plenty fast enough for that. Dog reappeared out of the smoke, smacking his jaws unhappily on a lock of dull* brown hair, and Aziraphale knew the archangel was gone.**

*Like poorly tempered chocolate, Aziraphale thought viciously, and then was always ashamed of zirself.

**Mercifully, along with Inoue-chan’s memory of her being there in the first place, or Aziraphale might have needed to get very creative with zir miracles.

The damage to the shop was significant. It pained zir, but in a distant way that faded* to the almost reassuring ache of a well-earned bruise. Aziraphale duly considered the dizzying question of “what to do next,” but, as ze’d somehow known since Michael said the word “Dagon,” in truth there was only one possible course. So ze waited, alone save for a somewhat traumatized ferret in a carefully miracled armchair amidst the burnt-out husk of Aziraphale’s life after Crowley. Ze could wait. Ze would wait, lost in zir thoughts.*** And after a few weeks of sleepless nights, Aziraphale’s phone finally beeped a text message alert.****

*Once ze saw to it that the cats** were all adopted happily elsewhere and Inoue-chan enthusiastically plunged into her newfound vocation of emergency management and crisis response. 

**Excepting Anthony the ferret, who would be staying with Aziraphale come Hell (possible) or high water (unlikely and, frankly: been there, done that a few thousand years ago). 

***Every now and again snapping to produce a yogurt-covered treat or premium cat kibble for Anthony. As no other human-shaped being had ever been able to make such glorious food appear out of thin air, Anthony the ferret/cake-snake was extremely devoted to Aziraphale.

****Aziraphale had, eventually, bowed to the necessity of owning and operating a smartphone in order to live in contemporary Japan. This horror was lessened significantly by the utter delight that shone out of Aziraphale’s young employees at the opportunity to instruct one so wholly uninitiated in the joys of  _ keitai seikatsu _ . And so, technically, Aziraphale’s phone did not beep. It tinkled with the exact timbre of a particular bell from a particular bookshop door in a particular city—you know, the one with inferior crepes. Ze clung to familiar things where ze could.

Michael’s contact had recently been updated, as it happened.

The Unforgivable: We need to discuss the situation.

Aziraphale: I am amenable.

Aziraphale: You know where I am.

The Unforgivable: Not there. Tomorrow, 9:30 local time, address subject to negotiation.

Aziraphale: I require a guarantee of safe conduct.

The Unforgivable: <see attached picture message>

Aziraphale scrutinized the photograph, taken of what appeared to be a very old and very bureaucratic document next to a Heavenly in-tray. The image was suspiciously well-lit and composed, far too much so for anyone not snapping regular photographs for Instagram, in fact. But at the moment all Aziraphale cared about was that it was real. Michael was undoubtedly a lot of things* but willing to ignore properly filed paperwork was not one of them. Eventually, Aziraphale was satisfied.

*Most of them unprintable.

Aziraphale: Then I will see you tomorrow.

  
  


The next morning at 9:39 AM* exactly, the retired Principality Aziraphale sat across from the Demon Lord Dagon, Master of Files and Torments, and the Archangel Michael, Warrior General of the Heavenly Host, at a modest table in the Älmhult IKEA cafe. It served admirably as a compromise location, as Aziraphale had suggested cafe after coffeeshop after cafe and Michael countered with a truly dizzying variety of office supply stores.

*Aziraphale stood outside on the pavement so as to make absolutely clear that zir lateness was deliberate. Even if ze had only lasted 9 minutes.

“Parley,” Aziraphale said.

Dagon, who up until then had been clasping Michael’s hand protectively and glaring pitchforks at Aziraphale, snorted.

“"Parley? Damn to the depths whatever muttonhead thought up 'parley,’” she said, with a significantly raised copper-colored eyebrow that seemed to expect a reply. Aziraphale and Michael stared at her. Dagon stared back for a moment before deflating and rolling her eyes. “Angels. Culturally illiterate, the lot of you. I swear to Satan, Michael, someday I’m going to get you to watch a movie.”

Michael appeared skeptical but made no comment. The ice broken with whatever rubbish* Dagon was spouting, Aziraphale decided to open negotiations.

*Though Aziraphale did hazily recall Crowley arriving at the bookshop with a bottle of rather spicy rum, in high spirits (already) about something called “International Talk Like a Pirate” Day. Dagon’s movie seemed likely to relate. Aziraphale’s memories, however, centered on the important things. Like the absurdly theatrical jet black pirate’s blouse Crowley had donned, complete with waving frills and cascading lace, and how it emphasized the span of their arms and liveliness of their gestures. And how zir hand had itched with the urge to grab hold of Crowley’s hips, scandalously accentuated by the extremely impractically tight black leather pants Crowley had paired with the blouse. Important things like that.

“What is Crowley’s current situation, in Hell?”

“Freelance contractor,” Dagon said. “Mostly my assistant. Assigned to a pretty big project just now, though, you might remember it—Armageddon?”

“Are they bound or restrained or imprisoned in any way, on any of the planes?”

“No,” Michael said. “Your demon chose this.”

“Making regular trips to Earth, even,” Dagon said. “I do encourage them to get out.”

“Yes. Particularly when we have phonesex involving your desk,” Michael said. With total equanimity.

Whatever Aziraphale had been about to say vanished, though zir jaw still hung open. Dagon blushed with her whole face, highlighting some small bumpy ridges that made Aziraphale think of the scales on Crowley’s feet and lower spine. Both Aziraphale and Dagon turned incredulous stares on Michael, who seemed slightly confused at their reaction.

“Am I incorrect?” Michael asked, and then, eyes widening in horror, “Crowley wasn’t  _ present  _ when— Dagon’s blush went from red to purple, and the demon hastened to interrupt.

“—No, no, not incorrect, not at all. Ah, yeah. Very very very correct. Just a teeny bit over-specific in your details, Michael.” 

Michael exhaled with relief. Dagon took a moment to compose herself and allow the blush to drain from her face.

“But it’s fine,” Dagon said. “This is actually—mind, in an  _ extremely _ tangential way—what we’re here to talk about. To ‘parley,’ as you put it, Principality. We’re here to offer you a deal.”

“A deal?” Aziraphale scoffed, “with  _ you _ ?”

“No, I will handle the actual paperwork and sign on our behalf,” Michael said quickly. “You needn’t fear signing a contract with an agent of Hell.”

Aziraphale was not at all sure ze was more comfortable signing a contract with an agent of Heaven. But the next step on the mental checklist Aziraphale had laboriously constructed in zir mind, back in the silence of the fire’s aftermath, was to at least hear them out. Then ze could decide.

“We will disclose to you the location of the new Antichrist child.”

“Incidentally, that’s also where Crowley spends most of their time on Earth.”

“And in exchange, you,” Michael said, locking eyes with Aziraphale, “will truthfully impart to us the exact start date of your Arrangement with the Demon Crowley, the number of blessings and temptations each of you performed on the other’s behalf, and at what date you first successfully tested your immunities.”

Ironically, it was only the long, long practice ze had hiding zir regard from Crowley that allowed Aziraphale to maintain an even composure at this request.

“I...see,” Aziraphale said finally, mind whirring furiously. “So you were fully aware, then, when you each visited us, that we had not…” Aziraphale really could not think of any word to describe love-making that ze particularly wanted to use in these...beings’ presence.

“Not had sex,” Michael said. “Yes. The Grigori observation files are very thorough, even if,” Aziraphale lifted zir eyebrows in bleakly amused skepticism and Michael’s tone frosted over, “even if we did not have the resources to analyze them in detail before the Incident and _ trusted _ that our field agents—”

Dagon coughed meaningfully to interrupt. If Aziraphale didn’t know better, ze would have sworn the demon was concealing a smile. And then was forced to question more or less everything ze knew to be true about the archangel* when Michael shot Dagon a look so simultaneously exasperated and fond that Aziraphale’s heart squeezed in recognition.  _ Almighty God, please, please, hear my prayer _ . Ze just missed Crowley so much. Speaking of which.

*Michael had become substantially more, well, not  _ human _ exactly, but almost...relatable through the years of her visits to the shop in Japan. Aziraphale had heard quite a bit about her ‘friend,’** but actually experiencing the Archangel Michael, live and in person, as indisputably part of a couple, well. That was something else.

**During particularly dark times, ze imagined it might be Crowley. Pictured them sneering at Aziraphale, or even worse, just pitying zir with a resigned sigh. “You honestly thought  _ you _ would ever be enough?” Saw, in zir mind’s eye, Michael put Crowley on their knees, her strong hand threaded tightly through their wine-red hair, and—no. Aziraphale would  _ not _ think such shameful, petty, jealous, unworthy things again. Ze had known they were not true, could not be true. And ze had been right.

“I will also require the faithful transcript of what you told Crowley. Before.”

Michael and Dagon exchanged a look.

“That is acceptable,” Michael said. She met Aziraphale’s eyes. “Do we have an Agreement?”

“And you will use this knowledge to avert the Apocalypse?” Aziraphale asked, feeling the need to be rather certain on this particular point.

“Yes.” Dagon and Michael said it simultaneously and with such clear conviction that Aziraphale almost wanted to find it in zir heart to forgive them. 

Almost.

After all, if this painful process had proved anything, it was that Aziraphale’s original instinct had been correct. The most successful deceptions are those which the mark performs upon themself.

“Then I am agreed,” Aziraphale said, and ze and Michael shook on it.

“Now then,” Michael said, and whipped a truly enormous spreadsheet out of a briefcase Aziraphale hadn’t noticed before that moment. “I have compiled a record of both your and Crowley’s reports and estimates of the number of blessings and/or temptations required to perform each reported task. Dagon and I have,” they exchanged glances, “already begun the process of transmuting our essences based on my best predictions of the required exposure, but we have a great deal of catching up to do and only sixteen years to do it.”

“Also,” Dagon put in wryly, “ _ we _ still have to do our  _ actual _ jobs.”

* * *

And if that wasn’t Satan’s own truth, Dagon thought, as yet another minor demon came in with yet more instructions from Beez. They had been at that IKEA significantly longer than predicted, which really shouldn’t have come as the surprise that it did after Dagon knowingly let Michael* and Aziraphale*** loose on a spreadsheet spanning several millennia.

*The world’s most anal-retentive** angel

**That this was one of the many things about Michael that charmed Dagon really did not bear thinking on.

**The world’s most indecisive angel

It’d taken a few weeks, in fact, of marathon meetings at the IKEA before all parties were satisfied with the spreadsheet’s accuracy. And all the while Dagon had—her stomach still roiled at the thought—been  _ blessing _ things. Like, actually. Advancing the interests of the Almighty. Helping little old ladies’ souls cross the street  _ away _ from the gambling parlor.*

*Or, only once,** away from the senior center crossword puzzle creator who had mis-spelled the answer to one of the clues and allowed Eileen ( _ Eileen! _ ) to finish the crossword first and edge her out in the race for the title of Champion Puzzler, which was rightfully hers! There were actual demons whose wrath couldn’t reach that level. It had the potential to be  _ glorious _ . But no. Instead, Dagon had exerted some serious effort as a “substitute” nurse so the old woman ended up merely sulking and loudly declaring that “crosswords weren’t a serious test of puzzling skill anyway, were they, so much trivia; for real mental acuteness, the research said you had to do Sudoku” where the activity director was sure to hear.

**But the overwhelming sulfurous reek of the human’s wrath would be forever seared into Dagon’s brain.

It really wasn’t fair,* either, that Michael now had Aziraphale to help her figure out how to curse things and tempt people with angelic powers not designed for such a task. Not when Dagon was stuck all on her lonesome with just “oh, Crowley always did it so easily, hmm, I really cannot fathom where you could be going wrong” as zir “helpful” advice. That said, she was finally starting to understand how ze and Crowley worked together as a couple. She hadn’t really gotten it before, put the bizarre attraction down to random chance and the millennia of isolation from their co-workers, but now it was freaking obvious. Crowley, the demon with a heart of gold,** and Aziraphale, crouching angel hidden asshole, going on adventures and saving the world through sheer stupidity and dumb luck.  _ Satan _ , but Dagon needed a break.

*She must be even more tired than she thought if she was whining about fairness, of all the little sweet cutesy things that did not exist.

**Getting Michael to watch  _ Pirates of the Caribbean _ might be a stretch*** but surely  _ Pretty Woman  _ wasn’t asking too much?

***Dagon was certain Michael would get distracted critiquing how (in)accurate the film’s naval combat was as soon as someone brought out a cannon. 

But a break for Dagon was about as likely as the Antichrist wandering off to build furniture somewhere, she thought while watching Crowley idly spin around in their chair. Dagon had lost the time and energy to continue their running battle over the Filing and Torments Office at about the same time as her first attempt to spread (individually) small but (globally) significant amounts of Heavenly Love and Bliss via social media. It turned out that humans were utter monsters who essentially  _ all _ belonged in Hell and should be* eternally grateful that Earth was the only place in the universe that she and Michael could kick back and fuck. Also, hashtags were dumb.*

*But were not and would never be

** #fact

“So, why am I teaching Sabrina to dance, again?”

Crowley’s voice shredded Dagon’s feeble concentration on divvying up Circle Duty to all the demons* with more hands-on responsibilities re: Torment.

*Who were also seriously deficient in the gratefulness-to-Dagon department, but they at least had the excuse of being, you know, demons.

“There’s going to be some kind of obedience test. Trials. Something, whatever, to avoid The Adam Situation take 2.”

“And dancing is one of these trials?” Crowley snorted, and Dagon really didn’t have any more clue than they did. “What, gonna make her do the cha-cha with Hastur?”

“The Mephisto Waltz,” Lilith said from the doorway. Dagon closed her eyes in irritation and fought the urge to bang her head* against the desk. Ever since Antichrist 2.0 went up earthside, Lilith had been down about the office like that spoiled milk smell you could never quite clean out of your carpet. She would put very short odds on Lilith being specifically under orders to watch Dagon and the other senior demons, looking for any signs of dissention** in the ranks.  _ Better to burn it all down _ , a voice in Dagon’s head said.  _ It’s all broken, all of it,  _ corrupt _. Clear the board and start afresh. Only logical thing to do. _ She was reasonably sure that voice came from exhaustion, rather than logic, but it was blessed difficult to argue against.  _ You could even bring the angel with you, if you tried your hardest. Michael might even help. _

*Or someone’s head, at least. Crowley was pretty fast, though, and her own desk was sat between them.

**Say, for instance, systematically but subtly sabotaging preparations for the Final Battle and doing everything in her not-so-limited power to make Crowley believe the Earth was worth saving again so they’d do whatever the blessed hell it was they did last time. Or consorting with an Archangel to make herself immune to Holy Water, Hell’s ultimate (if ironic) weapon for keeping demons in line. Take your pick.

“What do you want, Lilith?”

“That’s not very nice,” Lilith said and prowled inside the office to sit in a wingback chair that definitely had not been there before and took up far, far too much space. Dagon groaned. Oh shit. Had that been out loud? “I’m just filling Crowley here in on operational matters pertinent to their assignment. Seeing as you’re so busy, I thought you’d appreciate a helping hand.”

“So what about the Mephisto Waltz?” Crowley cut in. Their expression looked almost as hostile as Dagon felt, which was kinda cheering.  _ They’re not your friend _ , the voice said.  _ Not if they knew what you did. Aziraphale proved that when ze tried to kill Michael. Would have killed Michael, if that human hadn’t blundered in. _ Rationally, Dagon knew that Michael being alone* when Aziraphale attacked her was neither here nor there. Michael could take care of herself. Her extreme competence was one of the sexiest things about her. Add to that, Michael was definitively more skilled than Dagon as a warrior,** more skilled than anyone, probably. But mistakes could happen to anyone. Especially when you people were your “friends.” 

*Dagon had been so close to losing her. So fucking close. It was utterly terrifying.

**Determining that had been quite an enjoyable evening.

“She will dance the Mephisto Waltz with the Dark Lord, her final task to perform before she takes her throne.”

Crowley hmm-ed. “So, The Great Plan would probably tell me to get on with teaching the kiddo to waltz, then.”

“If you would be so kind,” Lilith said. Probably mostly to see Crowley contort their face like it was caught in the squash-and-stretch mode of some Satanic rubber/Earthly play-doh lovechild. At least Lilith enjoyed irritating Crowley as much as she did Dagon. 

They sat in silence for a time, save the clacking of Dagon’s keyboard. Lilith traded off staring at Dagon for staring at Crowley for staring at Dagon’s private filing cabinets as though she could divine their contents just by looking hard enough. Crowley finally opened a drawer, making it squeak obnoxiously on its track, and fished out one of the mummified eyeballs they’d stolen* from Dagon. They began idly bouncing it, like some kind of super Satanic bouncy ball. Off the desk, back to their hand. Against the ceiling, to the desk, hand, far wall. Pinging and ponging with little thuds that kept almost turning into a recognizable rhythm but then going just off at the last second every time. The eyeball hit the wall closer and closer to Lilith’s head. Dagon wasn’t bothered. She’d invented this game. After six millennia and change, she knew the billiard ball physics of every inch of the place by sound alone. She knew** when to move her head.

*That little asshole.

**As Crowley had spent some significant time testing when they first started playing with the eyeballs instead of just ducking them.

Lilith finally sighed and stood, vanishing her obnoxious chair with a snap.

“Fine, I do have actual work* to do,” she said. “I’m  _ sure _ I’ll be seeing you both. Soon.”

*Which was, frankly, news to Dagon.

After securely* locking the office door, Dagon looked over at Crowley. They were grinning like the snake that got the canary while the damn cat was too busy with the cream.

*Crowley left it a smidge open and balanced a bucket on top. It didn’t actually have anything in it, usually, but it never failed to make anyone trying to enter the office shit themselves in fear or call out, (thus warning Dagon and Crowley of their approach) shrilly demanding it be removed before they came in.

“So, what are you going to teach the kiddo next?” Dagon asked, surprising even herself by breaking the contented silence.

“Aaaaah, you know,” Crowley drawled. “Electric slide.”

Dagon felt her lips curl in a smile to match theirs, that completely and utterly unrepentant little shit.  _ Not really, _ the voice said. _ Not your friend _ .

All of this was to say that Dagon herself wasn’t sure, even as she knocked on Aziraphale’s door, what she was doing or why. She found Aziraphale in zir cottage, knitting yet another extremely elaborate* shawl.

*And to Dagon’s mind, impractical. The purpose** of a shawl was to keep you warm, right? So why put holes in it? On purpose? Didn’t the holes release the heat?

**And Satan, she sounded like Michael even in her own head now. It would be blessed embarrassing if the angel hadn’t said “kinda” the other day, out loud and everything. She looked so startled, mouth frozen in a perfect “O” of surprise, that Dagon just had to give her a quick little kiss.

“You think it’s a bad idea?” Aziraphale had asked, looking out zir kitchen window. “For me to make my presence here more overt. More noticeable, at a supernatural level.” Sabrina and her human friends were all in the angel’s backyard, happily chatting and laughing at Dog as he flip-flopped upside-down to wriggle around in the grass. “I won’t give up on them. On us. I won’t.”

“Because that worked so well last time,” Dagon said. Aziraphale whirled on her, but Dagon held up a hand. “Peace, angel. I just mean…” Satan, what did she mean? “Just. Be careful. Crowley’s been through a lot. Had to put themself back together after what we did, what you did, after everything that happened. Don’t want to see them smash apart again. Okay?”

Aziraphale gave her a far too penetrating look. Dagon hated that the better she got to know the angel, the worse she got at reading zir emotions. 

“Okay.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: more violence
> 
> Also, um, I do not endorse this method of conflict resolution for general consumption. Just so you know.
> 
> Also, we finally get to see all of Vebira's gorgeous artwork. See more here! https://vebirascanvas.tumblr.com/

Now that Crowley knew Aziraphale was here, right over there, they couldn’t help themself. They more or less made camp in Greendale.* And they started making up excuses. Excuses to lurk in the bookshelves when Aziraphale visited Dr. Cerberus’s occult outlet and (bizarrely) 50s style diner. Excuses to lie down in the sun, positioned just so on that one rock in the Greendale city park so they could see Aziraphale working in zir garden.** In other words, excuses to see**** Aziraphale.

*To Sabrina, Hilda, and Ambrose’s joy and Zelda’s exasperation

**Oh, Someone, but how Crowley wanted to intervene. Aziraphale had never been gifted with plants, and Crowley could so easily just make the garden grow well for zir. The angel clearly loved it, enjoyed spending time sitting or walking around the garden, just was utter shite at figuring out how to take care of it.*** Eventually, Crowley did. While Aziraphale was at work, of course, so they were in no danger of getting caught weeding or spritzing or pruning or shouting at the rambling yellow and pink roses to get a move on and cover the angel’s blessed adorable archway thing already. 

***No, Crowley did not see any kind of metaphor in this at all, thank you very much.

****And there was  _ so much _ of the angel to see. Zir curves, always luscious, had achieved genuine diva status. And don’t even get Crowley started on those  _ breasts _ . They had seen Heaven. Heaven absolutely did not compare to what it would be like if Crowley could snuggle their head into the angel’s chest, pillowed warm and safe, as Aziraphale held them and just talked to Crowley. Like they were feeding the ducks. Bickering and speculating and laughing like they used to. And then maybe ze would take hold of Crowley’s chin, gently but irresistibly, upwards. And then lean down to press their mouths together, and. Yeah. Right. Suffice it to say that both Crowley’s imagination and their right hand were working overtime.

It was inevitable* that they would slip up. Although, given Sabrina’s growing interest in all things romantic and Hilda’s continued interest in “helping” them, Crowley had serious suspicions about upon whose shoulders the blame truly fell. But no matter whose fault it was, one evening Crowley found themself in a park, sitting on a bench, looking at water, beside Aziraphale. They watched the sun set, golden and fiery, through the trees casting dark streaks of shadow over the small Greendale “pond.”** 

*Aziraphale would no doubt say “ineffable,” and then Crowley would have to mime a dramatic death, if for no other reason than the form of the thing.

**Upcycled drainage ditch.

“Bit of a come-down from St. James,” Aziraphale said. Crowley couldn’t help but sniff in amusement.

“And no ducks.”

“Do you know, I learned that it’s actually not healthy, that is, it’s not good for the ducks to feed them bread?” Crowley made a noise of vague interest. “Anathema read a great deal of dreadful rubbish, but some of the materials she showed me...” They let the angel’s voice wash over them, soothing, relaxing their limbs into a slouch. At some point, the impromptu lecture on sustainable municipal park wildlife maintenance trailed off, and they were left in a silence that was, for the first time in such a blessed long time, comfortable. So of course Aziraphale, bastard that ze was, had to ruin it.

“You were right.”

“Of course,” Crowley said on reflex. And was relaxed enough to be stupid enough to say, “About what?”

“I never should have listened to Dagon. I should have come to you, trusted you, talked to you. We were—are, if you’ll still have me—a team.”

Crowley’s body did not have human chemistry, so it was exceedingly unfair that fight-or-flight adrenaline was suddenly surging through their system.

“Trusted that you loved just as much as I did. I apologize—”

Right, this was so not happening.

“Crowley! What are you?” Aziraphale gasped, waving a hand around in the space Crowley had just been, “Don’t you  _ dare _ try to, to, to—”

Oh, but Crowley did dare. They dared to become a very small, very fast snake. The sun had carried on setting while Aziraphale talked about carbohydrates and duck shit and pond water, so it was now rather dark.

“To slither out of having this conversation!” Aziraphale finally finished stuttering, but Crowley was already streaking through the grass.

“Let there be Light!” ze cried, and abruptly a great floating ball of light tried to ruin Crowley’s perfectly good hiding places. That was  _ not _ fair, the angel should not  _ also*  _ get to use zir powers! But it was too late. Crowley was already at the edge of the light and, in another breath, gone.

*No angel! Only Crowley!

  
  


They tried to hide under their desk in Hell, but blasted Dagon was already in the office. She took one look at them, then closed her eyes for a long breath.* She opened them and scowled at Crowley, making direct and uncomfortable eye contact since their glasses couldn’t really follow them into super-small super-speedy snake form.

*A tic of Dagon’s that Crowley knew well, as it signaled a demonic prayer for patience and strength.

“I’m not gonna stop you from hiding under that desk,” Dagon said. So far, so good. “But—” Ah, there it was. “But. Crowley. If you don’t suck it up and  _ communicate _ with the angel, you  _ will _ regret it.”

“What, are we to direct threats, now?” Crowley tried to sneer. “I thought you preferred to stick your knife in my back.” Dagon’s mouth tightened, but she didn’t break eye contact.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean.”

So that was Greendale and Hell emphatically struck off the list of places Crowley could go and not have someone look at them with uncomfortably knowing eyes. Under the circumstances, Crowley did the only reasonable thing a demon could do. They went to Vegas.

They’d been thinking of introducing Sabrina to pole dance* at some point and, to that end, taken to filling up their demonic tank with transfusions of Lust from a number of burlesque and strip clubs in Sin City.*** Their reputation (re: serpentine core strength, inhuman flexibility, and tempting demonic wiles) meant that Crowley had but to knock on the stage door to be granted a prime slot in any evening’s performance, anywhere in the city. 

*A subject about which Zelda also had strong opinions but, delightfully, not the ones Crowley had expected. “Sexual power is an essential part of a witch’s arsenal,” she’d said. “Let me know if you need** any pointers.”

**As if.

***As far as Crowley knew, the humans actually came up with both the city and the moniker all on their own, which really said everything you needed to know about Hell’s usefulness.

Crowley’s most recent routine began with an utterly dark theater. Spotlights illuminated tantalizing glimpses of their flesh, hips swaying in time with slow drum beats as they sauntered down the platform towards the pole, before going dark again. And then, no one could look at anything else, as the music crescendoed and every light in the place re-focused on them as they leaned back against the pole before effortlessly flipping upside down and over into a mid-air split to start. Crowley couldn’t see much of the audience, of course, not with the stage lights flooding their vision. But they had other senses. And it was those, as Crowley spun faster and faster around the pole to a whirling cascade of sound, that knew. Somehow, Aziraphale was there. Watching. This should have been their cue for an early exit, but buoyed by the crowd’s Lust as they were, Crowley let their professionally sly smile deepen and richen into a savage grin.  _ Go on then, angel. Take a look at what you’re missing. _

It was the ass-end of AM when Crowley heard a knock on their dressing room* door.

*In which they had definitely not been hiding.

“Enjoy the show, did you, angel?” they called out, feeling reckless.

The door opened and closed, even the small metallic click of the doorknob loud after all the other patrons and dancers and probably even the janitors had all gone home. Crowley didn’t turn around.

“I daresay you know the answer to that,” Aziraphale said. 

For reasons they couldn’t begin to explain, that reply, that phrasing, that very very very Aziraphale-esque way of saying yes (probably) without saying yes (directly) went straight to Crowley’s last nerve.

“Never a straight answer with you, is it?” Crowley snarled. “Always fill-in-the-fucking blank and unscramble the jumble and ‘oh Crowley, why would I know the Antichrist’s shoe size?’”

Aziraphale gaped and then drew zirself up with indignation.

“You’re a fine one to talk about not communicating clearly! I’ve made a lot of mistakes, Crowley, but I wasn’t the only one.”

Right, this was officially over. Again. Fuck. Crowley started throwing clothes into their duffel, sweeping makeup and hair ties and grip spray haphazardly off the vanity.

“Stop that.”

Crowley barely bit back the words* “make me” and turned to hiss at Aziraphale instead. At an Aziraphale who was significantly closer than Crowley had thought ze was. Ze caught Crowley’s wrist, which had been midway through ripping their silky black dressing gown off its hook and dumping it into the duffel.

*Ever so slightly unbecoming of a 6000 year old occult being.

“Stop that. You should take more care with—it’s so beautiful and delicate, and—and you’re hurting it.”

“Since when do you care,” Crowley said with all the venom they’d been quietly ignoring for decades now, even longer, too fucking fast, I don’t even like you, we’re not friends, my side wouldn’t like this, my side wouldn’t like that, oh look Crowley it’s a sex game, how droll, “about hurting a demon.”

Aziraphale’s eyes went electric with fury, and the back of Crowley’s head slammed into the cork message board, scattering the post-it’s and pinned notes. Crowley struck out, grabbing for Aziraphale’s hair, but the angel pinned both their wrists against the concrete basement wall. The deliberate force of it went straight to their core, conjuring phantom memories of a muddy beach, rain, and how Aziraphale’s body could somehow be both soft and unyielding. Grounding. How Crowley had dreamed of that night going differently, of them sharing* their sorrow. And then how the angel had left them, inevitably. Cold and alone and in grief. For centuries.

*Heaven knew no one else would understand.

“You know that to be a lie. You,” Aziraphale shook with the effort of keeping zirself under control, “can’t just keep doing this. You can’t stalk me in Greendale and then just run away every time I try to reach out a hand. You can’t blame me for making the mistake of believing Dagon when you didn’t even tell me about Michael threatening you. You know what Heaven is like.”

Crowley let their fangs shiver into existence and hissed again. Despite Aziraphale grinding their wrists into the concrete, they could just about still snap their fingers. Crowley’s ratty cool-down sweats vanished and the dressing gown shimmered into its place, black silk hanging down barely long enough to cover their ass even with the wide red dressing belt holding it in place.

“Of course. You want everything to just sit prettily on its plate, don’t you, waiting for you to be good and ready, waiting for you to be sure. Waiting, that couldn’t hurt anyone, could it—"

Crowley was far too far gone to have had anything like a plan, but when Aziraphale kissed them hard, claiming, biting their lip viciously even though Crowley was the one with the fangs, it finally felt like the  _ right _ next step in the dance they’d been floundering at since Armageddon* whistled by over their heads. Crowley returned the kiss with interest on Aziraphale’s intensity, fighting for control, and snaked their leg around like Aziraphale was the blessed pole. Before promptly using it to yank the angel’s foot out from under zir and launching off the wall to press their advantage.

*1.0. 

And then they were wrestling, tumbling over each other and straining like they hadn’t since ancient Greece, before The Arrangement, before they were friends, when Aziraphale had been attending symposia, consoling (and apparently fucking) Plato, and Crowley had been inspiring democracy, i.e. mob rule with delusions of grandeur. Aziraphale had always been going to win this fight. It didn’t matter what corporations they wore, at their cores Aziraphale had been a cherubim, a soldier, one of Heaven’s divine warrior elite—-demotion or not—and Crowley an artist, a cultivator, an engineer, too much of a philosopher for anyone’s* Good.

*Least of all their own.

But Crowley wasn’t just going to roll over anymore. They strained against each other, grappling and biting, dripping sweat neither of them actually needed to produce but which undeniably fit the moment.* Crowley wasn’t sure who brought the wings out first, but suddenly the room was full of feathers and extra limbs to bear down or be twisted up or to beat savagely against the air to gain leverage and force. They knew each other’s bodies, at least, very well by now—what would provoke a reaction, where they were most sensitive.

*This really was all she wrote for the dressing room furniture and Crowley’s pole-dancing kit.

Eventually, it happened. Aziraphale planted a knee in Crowley’s back, a foot on their opposite wing, and twisted their arm up backwards until Crowley gasped and stilled. Somehow they’d ended up in front of the miraculously unbroken dressing room mirror. Aziraphale clenched zir free hand in Crowley's hair and dragged their head up to force Crowley to meet Aziraphale’s thunderous eyes in the mirror. Aziraphale's irises were almost wholly blacked out by anger and what Crowley could easily recognize as desperate want. Well, fuck. It would've been a victory—or something—if they weren't feeling the same blessed thing.

“Remember that statue you had, back in your Mayfair flat, in London?” 

Only Aziraphale could pull off nostalgia and menace simultaneously. Ze didn’t wait for Crowley to respond. “I rather thought the sculptor had it the wrong way around. Good always triumphs over Evil. It's…"

If ze says "ineffable," Crowley thought, I might actually vomit.

"...inevitable."

Oh. Well. A shudder rolled through Crowley's body, which Aziraphale apparently interpreted as struggle given how ze changed grip from Crowley's hair to their throat. Struggle. Sure. Definitely that's what it was.

“…thought…about thisss…often…did you...then?” Crowley managed, panting. They could see themself in the mirror too, flushed from collarbone to cheeks, serpentine pupils round and fat as a human’s. Their robe hadn’t really stood a chance of surviving the struggle. The ragged silk and tatters of lace hung off their body obscenely, making them feel even more exposed than they would have fully naked. Crowley understood being naked—there was a power in it, a dignity you could summon. There was a time when humans charged into battle nude, everything hanging out and flapping in the charge, underlining with big bold red lines exactly how insane that side’s warriors were. But pinned down, exposed by the utter ruin of their armor laying in rags all around them, that. That was something else.

Aziraphale was an image of Glory. Zir eyes were incandescent, wings pearlescent and almost glowing, face flushed with triumph. Crowley had thought about this scenario (and a significant number of related variations) many, many, many times. Somehow, even when Aziraphale had been suggesting every manner of sex under the sun,* they had never done this. Maybe somehow they had both known.

*In both figurative and physical senses of the word.

“You are vanquished,  _ demon _ .” Aziraphale was using zir warrior voice, and Crowley shuddered. Something deep in their core responded to that voice and those words. They writhed (on purpose, this time) and told themself sternly that it was just to buck Aziraphale off. No other reason. No reason bearing any relation to how blessed safe it felt to push away, to question, to be difficult but to still be held, be cared for, be loved. To still be  _ worth _ it. Even when they weren’t desperately trying to please.

Aziraphale just shifted slightly to counter Crowley’s squirming, planting zir weight firmly onto their center of gravity behind their wings. Ze tightened zir chokehold around Crowley's throat and strained their arm back to an angle that made their shoulder scream. “Yield.”

“Out…of…smitings…today…are…you?”

“Yield.”

“Why…why should I?”

Crowley hissed, but warm, white noise was washing into their mind. It wasn’t an unpleasurable sensation. The opposite, in fact. Safety.

“Yield, Crowley,” Aziraphale said slowly, with the deliberation of one finally snapping the last pieces of a complex puzzle into place. “Because you are mine. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Crowley whimpered, feeling tears of relief, of release, start to flow.

"I surrender, Aziraphale.” Crowley slowly went limp in the angel’s grip as ze eased their arm down until it lay flat on the ground. Ze then began gently massaging their shoulder, but lest Crowley even begin to get any ideas about escaping,* Aziraphale kept zir weight firmly on Crowley’s back and clamped the hand that wasn’t seeing to Crowley’s shoulder down on the nape of their neck. 

*Bah, too cold to be a snake in the desert at night anyway.

“And what do you have to say for yourself?” Aziraphale asked, not shouting anymore but still stern. 

“Please,” Crowley half-breathed, half-sobbed.

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me!”

Aziraphale shuddered and ground down instinctively on Crowley’s ass, zir wings rustling softly somewhere above their head. Crowley moaned.

“I rather think that’s how we got into this mess in the first place.”

It took Crowley’s brain a few minutes to clear enough to decode what Aziraphale was saying. There was a rational, thoughtful part of their brain that understood and appreciated the wisdom of this course of action. It, however, was not in charge.

“Aziraphale, please!”

“No.”

“Need you!”

“And I need you, my dearest. For more than a fuck on a dirty floor. For more than stopping apocalypses. For more than dinner at the Ritz. For everything.”

Bless it all, Crowley’s head was clearing, the safe, comfortable haze slipping away, even as the word “fuck” coming out of Aziraphale’s mouth re-doubled the heat in their core.

“What about, uh, fucking us back out of this mess?” Crowley suggested hopefully. Aziraphale snorted.

“Nice try, my dearest.”

Aziraphale stayed put, weighing Crowley down, gripping their neck firmly but not choking. Ze ran zir free hand over Crowley’s skin and feathers, first healing all of the bruises and scrapes from their fight that ze could reach and then just petting, soothing, grounding them with touch. Crowley had no idea how long they stayed like that, except that eventually, eventually, they felt almost normal again. 

“So, uh. What are we going to do now?”

“Now,” Aziraphale said firmly, “we are going to  _ talk _ .”

Crowley groaned heavily but only made a token wriggle towards escape. Aziraphale was unmoved.

“Do you want to get up?”

Crowley considered. They did feel a bit silly, lying on the floor now that the intensity had mostly drained away, but it’s not like anyone was there to see.

“...feels safe, like this. Like it.”

Aziraphale murmured an agreement.

“But I would like to see your face, my dearest demon,” Aziraphale said. “And for you to see mine. How about if we just flip you over, mm? Maybe summon a pillow for your head?”

“Still hold me?”

“Yes. Always, my Crowley. I think we’ll both be in need of some comfort before we’re through.”

* * *

The troop deployment numbers swam before Michael’s eyes. She put the file down and rubbed her temples, the way she did for Dagon when the demon’s head* pained her. Michael was absolutely exhausted with no end in sight. Sabrina had just turned fourteen and showed no signs of being willing to obey anyone** anytime soon. That absolutely included one Lucifer Morningstar. While this was encouraging in the larger sense of ultimate goals, in the short-term the girl’s utter lack of anything even remotely resembling subtlety vis-a-vis disobedience had Hell on high alert. Monitoring had increased. Lilith was being dispatched Earth-side. The local coven leader had been read in to a limited version of the plan. Dagon was stressed.

*They still weren’t sure how this could be, given that their corporations were just that—corporations, not their actual selves. Later. They would determine the root cause later. There would be time for everything After, when the world had not ended again.

**Particularly her aunts, to their great dismay. Crowley had apparently thought themself an exception but was disabused of that notion entirely after The Feather Incident.

And thus, Michael was stressed. They’d sped up their respective cursing/tempting and blessing/salvation-ing* schedules with the goal of a controlled immunity test sometime this week. But systematically  _ and _ secretly stalling preparations for a war was not as simple as it sounded. It didn’t help that Dagon** had started asking questions like “why are we waiting until the last minute, depending on the Antichrist again, instead of doing something ourselves?” and “would it really be such a bad idea to drop the whole ‘pretending to be dedicated to the cause’ part of their workloads and just openly oppose the whole thing?” Which led, worst of all, to “well, Michael, if push comes to shove and the Second Great War kicks off, what are you going to do?” 

*Michael was so tired.

**Who had been spending  _ far _ too much time with Crowley and Aziraphale, in Michael’s completely unbiased opinion.

What she  _ had _ done after Dagon, chin up and eyes hard, asked her that question was to retort with “well, the most efficient solution to this entire situation would be for Hell to just admit when they’re beaten and stop trying to destroy the Earth.” Dagon had been, to put it mildly, unimpressed.* At first, it had felt good to say it. The thought had been growing ever stronger in her mind over the past months. But when she saw Dagon’s face again in her mind, she wished that she had not. It seemed self-doubt was a side effect of Earth exposure, after all. Michael did not care for it.

*And informed Michael in no uncertain terms that if she, Michael, believed that she, Dagon, was still going to “hang about and snuggle” her after saying such a thing, then she was in grave error.

Gabriel stuck his head in the door and greeted her with some cheerful inanity.

“Hello, Gabriel,” Michael said. “I’m afraid that I’m quite busy just now, can it wait?”

Gabriel came in and shut the door behind him. Apparently it could not.

“That’s actually exactly what I wanted to talk to you about, Michael.” 

He beamed at her. She stared at him.

“Well, you are certainly welcome to take over these troop deployments,” she said* slowly, but Gabriel shook his head.

*That would certainly be one way to sabotage them.

“Never dream of it! Who am I to try and butt in when we have the master, right?”

Of course.

“Besides, it’s important for managers like us to keep our eyes on the prize and pri-or-i-tize. Make sure we’re spending our time where it has the maximum impact on the overall goal and let other angels sweat the small stuff.”

Gabriel was looking at her expectantly.

“Yes,” she said, taking an educated guess at what Gabriel wanted to hear, and trying to indicate through intonation that the conversation was over. Instead, he relaxed back into the visitor chair and made an exaggerated gesture of relief, wiping imaginary sweat off his brow. 

“So glad we’re on the same page, Michael. I know going down to Earth so often was taking a huge chunk out of your schedule.”

Wait.

“Now, now, don’t be alarmed,” Gabriel said, raising his hands in defense against whatever he saw in her face. “I know, I know, checking over the in-out logs is kind of a creepy micro-manager thing to do, but I’ve got to look out for you! Your workload’s clearly been taking a toll, Michael; you assigned the Virtues to sword-fighting practice and the Cherubim to choir duty. Again. I’ve been getting complaints.”

“That’s quite an unfair burden on you,” Michael said with what she thought was a very polite smile, “Why don’t you forward those complaints to me, and I can handle them personally.* All must be prepared for the battle to come, and we wouldn’t want...unrest in the ranks.”

*i.e. put the fear of Michael into those lazy little back-stabbing shits in Virtue who complained “but Archangel Michael, these swords are heavy!”

Gabriel had the utter audacity to shake his finger at her. Perhaps the “personally” had been too much.

“Careful, Michael, remember that Wrath issue you have. What do we say?”

“Do the math, avoid the Wrath,” Michael said through clenched teeth.

“Exactly. And don’t worry,” he leaned forward with an extremely earnest expression, “I know your Earth-side projects must be important. I’ve assigned Sandalphon  _ and _ Uriel to take point on them. So you can just forward all the status reports over and let their capable hands take things from there.”

Gabriel had absolutely no conception of the scale of her “Wrath issue.”

“I see.”

“Except for the ones on that whole backchannel-with-Hell initiative.”

Michael relaxed infinitesimally. Not ideal, but she could work with this.

“Yes, my pre-existing relationship with the contact is essential to that project’s success.”

Gabriel grimaced and mimed weighing one hand against the other.

“Yeah, I mean it would be, but do you really think that project’s worth the effort? You’ve been backchanneling for years now, and we still don’t even know where the Antichrist child is. Kind of Step One, am I right?”

“Well—”

“To be perfectly frank, Michael, I’m concerned that your contact—Dagon, wasn’t it?—has been giving you the runaround. Demons lie, you know? Really, it was my fault for authorizing the project in the first place.”

Michael stood, so she could tower over Gabriel in her visitor’s chair.

“Might I remind you, Gabriel, that we are  _ both _ Archangels of The Lord.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, I’m not blaming you at all. I know you’re not the best with emotions, so it can be hard to figure this stuff out. Remember that project you two started with? The traitors?”

“Yes, of course,” she snapped. “A significant success, if  _ you _ recall, after  _ your _ execution plan failed spectacularly.”

“I  _ hate _ to have to tell you this,” he said, smugness dripping from every particle of his angelic being, “but they’ve been seen together again by the Grigori.  _ Very close together _ , if you catch my meaning.”

Michael did. Not as if this was news to her. She had complex feelings* on the subject of Aziraphale and Crowley’s reconciliation. Initially, she and Dagon had both been banned from a three-hundred pace radius around the cottage. Aziraphale explained that ze would assist them in the preservation of the Earth but, all else being equal, would strongly prefer to live in a universe from which they were absent.** They had worked out an efficient system of public rendezvous and communication via text message. Once Crowley had officially moved from the mortuary into the cottage, however,  _ Dagon’s _ ban had been lifted. Something she took full advantage of, despite often complaining to Michael about how sickeningly adorable*** the two were together. Dagon had once gently suggested that she could leave Michael and Aziraphale alone to “talk things out,” but Aziraphale had smiled in an extremely disturbing manner and advised Dagon that would not be necessary.

*Which were scheduled for consideration After.

**Granted, Aziraphale had used rather more colorful language.

***As well as the extreme importance of knocking and waiting for permission to enter unless one was prepared to see things that could never be unseen.

“So, yeah,” Gabriel said, with an exaggeratedly sad face of feigned sympathy. 

The sheer volume of Schadenfreude beaming out from Gabriel was deafening. Michael thought she might finally understand what Dagon meant when she complained that most angels’ auras were loud.

“Careful, Gabriel,” she said and smiled icily. “Remember that trouble with Pride you have sometimes?”

“Oh!” he exclaimed, eyes wide with alarm, amazement, and something* that seemed bizarrely like relief. “You’re right!”

*Though she was still working on her map of Gabriel’s emotional levers. 

And this is what really pained Michael about Gabriel. He was so incredibly sincere in everything he did. Truly a living embodiment of what Dagon called “drinking the Kool-Aid.”*

*Which apparently referenced some kind of human atrocity, judging by the way Aziraphale  _ and _ Crowley flinched slightly every time she said it.

“Don’t have Pride, just be glad you tried,” he recited and then nodded gravely. “Thank you, Michael. See, this is why we need to work together more closely!”

_ She tests us all _ , Michael thought grimly.  _ But not beyond what we may bear _ . Please, let that be true.

“Speaking of which, I should update you on that whole ‘Find the Antichrist’ initiative. See, I had this hunch.”

“Oh?”

“The traitors interfered with The Great Plan the first time, right?”

“Yes.”

“So, they would probably try and do that again!”

“I see,” Michael said carefully. “That is, they probably would if they knew how matters were proceeding.”

Gabriel’s face grew serious.

“Yes, exactly. They would need inside information. Which is why I put so many Grigori on observing the traitors in their new hidey-hole.”

Distant alarm bells started going off in Michael’s mind.

“What did they discover?”

“That’s the thing, Michael, and I am sorry to have to break it to you this way, but. Well. Your demon contact has been seen with them.”

“Dagon has?”

“Yes. And a whole lot of those times match up very closely with when you left Heaven to meet with her.”

The alarm bells were no longer distant.

“It seems like she must’ve been going straight to them with whatever you two talked about, instead of Hell. Maybe also Hell—who knows. It’s difficult to imagine the mind of a demon.” Gabriel shuddered. “If they could betray Her, then anything’s possible, right?”

The alarm bells were very loud, now.

“Gabriel,” Michael said slowly, for the very first time in her very long life _ hoping _ to be mistaken, “what have you done?”

“Well, when you see a hole, you’ve got to plug it, don’t you. ‘Loose lips sink ships,’ is what Sandalphon said—doesn’t talk much, that guy, but when he does, whew! Look out! Am I right?”

“What. Have. You. Done.”

“Sent Uriel and Sandalphon to take care of it. Figured it’d be good to get them some practice working together doing something familiar before letting them loose on your initiatives.”

“Something familiar?”

“Well,” Gabriel looked at her with surprise, “killing the demon, of course.”

It had been a very, very long time since Michael had plunged her sword into the heart of another angel. Still worked, though.

* * *

If Aziraphale hadn’t been teaching Sabrina to read archaic Hebrew, the angel reflected later, the world could have ended very differently. As it was, ze was closing the Spellman mortuary’s front door just as Dagon shot out of the trees towards it. She was flying fast but laboriously, dripping steaming black ichor from two divine arrows lodged in her right wing. Uriel and Sandalphon, of all the beings in the world Aziraphale had not expected to see again, were in full flight close behind. 

_ She’s making for the protective spell _ , Aziraphale realized. It encircled the Spellman’s land and—supposedly—would prevent any unpermitted supernatural beings, be they celestial, occult, or wholly Other, from entering. But it had been designed for the likes of formerly mortal witches, minor demons, and blessed witch-hunters. Not for crusading archangels.

Dagon crash-landed as soon as she crossed the border and collapsed in a heap. She’d only managed to drag herself a quarter of a way to the house and shelter, halfway to where Aziraphale was running forward to help her, when Uriel and Sandalphon drew up at the edge of the protection spell. Uriel squinted and put a cautious hand forward, then smiled. The barrier exploded in a blaze of golden light. She raised her crossbow. Sandalphon grinned. But before she could loose a bolt, a ball of white-gold lightning crashed down between Dagon and the archangels. The thunderclap that rolled off it hit Aziraphale like a blow and knocked zir to the ground. 

Michael. Of course. But not as Aziraphale would have ever expected. Michael was covered in dazzling golden angelic ichor, splattered across her face and dripping from her hair, her clothes, her sword—especially her sword. She stood between Uriel, Sandalphon, and Dagon, wings fully spread, and seemed to be shouting something. Uriel lowered her crossbow immediately, utter horror painted across her face, but Sandalphon jeered. He shouted back, increasingly hysterical, about Gabriel. Gabriel was too Good, too trusting. Sandalphon grabbed something out of a sack tied to his back and held it up. A bottle of Hellfire. Aziraphale was close enough to hear now, despite being still somewhat deafened by the thunder blast.

“—haven’t Fallen, so stand aside and let us kill the demon, and  _ then _ we’ll recognize your authority,” Sandalphon snarled. “Otherwise…” he held up the jar.

“You will not touch her,” Michael growled right back. “Do what you will.”

_ She thinks she’s immune _ , Aziraphale realized. Dagon had said they were doing trials this week, and Aziraphale knew Michael. She wouldn’t risk a trial unless she was certain it would work. Dagon screamed at Michael not to be an idiot, but she was too injured. She could never make it to Michael in time. Aziraphale could.

If ze wanted to.

Aziraphale hated Michael. Really, truly hated her for what she’d done to Crowley, to them, to zir. Pretending to comfort zir in Japan, to be zir friend. And this had, of course, been the point. Been what Aziraphale had gambled on when ze smiled and did not correct Michael and Dagon’s certainty that they had Aziraphale and Crowley all figured out. The mysterious immunities, products of millennia of working together. But Aziraphale was  _ not _ immune to hellfire. Just like Michael.

And then Michael turned her head, ignoring a furious, armed Sandalphon and Uriel like only she could ever have the arrogance to do, and looked past zir to Dagon. Aziraphale knew Love when ze saw it. So as Sandalphon pulled back his arm to throw, Aziraphale charged forward and tackled Michael about the waist. The jar shot through the air where Michael’s torso had been and smashed against the ground. Heat roared out as the jar shattered, fire splattering everywhere but not, somehow just not quite, reaching the two angels. Which would last exactly as long as it took for the Hellfire to catch on the grass. Aziraphale had to get up. Michael had to get up. But they were tangled in a pile of limbs, and Michael was just staring at Aziraphale in shock, making no effort to move.

Suddenly a weird sucking sound pulled the heat of the fire away. Aziraphale looked up to see Crowley, still midair and hurtling towards them from the direction of the cottage. They were carrying...Dog? The Hellfire jumped on them as they landed, almost like a small dog itself, and then it was twining about them like a snake. Dog jumped down and advanced, small eyes glowing red and growling in a register that had even Aziraphale’s hackles up. Crowley held out a hand to point straight at Sandalphon and Uriel.

“Run.”

They ran.

Between the demons, angels, witches, Antichrist-in-training, and Sabrina’s mortal human friends,* they made for a rather full table at brunch.** Dagon was moving stiffly and could not retract her wings, but seemed already on the mend. Michael had, thankfully, gotten herself cleaned up. Aziraphale had not yet dared ask if this meant Gabriel was...gone.

*Who unfortunately turned out to have been watching—wide-eyed—through her bedroom window

**Not to mention a small dog-sized hellhound and a black cat-shaped witch’s familiar sat staring at each other, nose-to-nose, engaged in some kind of intense communication known only to the four-legged. 

Sabrina’s Aunt Hilda and Aziraphale, both always more at ease around food, passed around plates of what must have been something edible. Aziraphale was still more than a little in shock. The only being who seemed perfectly at ease, even glowing with these new additions to her little adopted family, was Sabrina.

“Well, um, dig in everyone!” Hilda said nervously, once plates had been passed around. “Everyone who, ah, eats. I guess?”

Dagon pretended to clear her throat, which for some reason made Michael look almost teary.*

*And if that wasn’t proof that they were now in wholly unknown territory, Aziraphale thought, nothing was.

“Welcome to Team Save the World,” Dagon said, looking around the room again. “I guess.” 

Sabrina grinned from ear-to-ear.

“I came up with the name!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! Thank you, readers, so much for sticking with us through this. And applause all around to the incredible Vebira, whose gorgeous art you see above, and TheKnittingJedi, who beta-ed far beyond the call of duty. And thank you to the Good Omens Big Bang mods, who organized this incredible event through which I now have friends.
> 
> You probably notice that we left the door open for a sequel here, if there's interest, so I've made this part of a series. Dagon and Michael took my lovely neat little plot outline, told me it was adorable, and then proceeded to rip it to shreds. There are Thoughts, but they will be a *long* time coming since I need to get the rest of my life back in order. But you can subscribe to the series if you'd like to be alerted should a sequel come out.
> 
> Thank you!


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